


Contract: Kill Alduin

by thelightofmorning



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ableism, Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beroc needs a drink, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Child Death, Child Neglect, Cirroc gets to kill a dragon or three, Class Differences, Corpse Desecration, Dragons everywhere are reconsidering their life choices, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Genocide, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Incompatible Mixed-Orientation Marriage, Irkand is FML because RUSTEM'S the freaking Dragonborn, Kynareth doesn't pay Callaina enough to deal with this shit, Mental Health Issues, Misogyny, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Religious Conflict, Rustem may be a lousy human being but he tries to be a good dad, Sex Work, Sigdrifa is actually really really worried at the moment, Slavery, The Night Mother is pretty much Rustem's conscience, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 23,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24437065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Even the gods need the services of the Dark Brotherhood and so one Rustem Aurelius finds himself empowered with the power of the Thu'um to destroy Alduin. He's also going to destroy a few enemies on the way, but you can't make an omelette without cracking a few eggs, and some of these eggs have had twenty-something years of cooling.
Comments: 175
Kudos: 52





	1. A Contract

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, grief/mourning, slavery, ableism, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse and mentions of genocide, drug use, adultery, sex work, torture, child abandonment and child death. Another AU that explores more of Rustem's viewpoint.

“They say the gods don’t answer our prayers, but I think today has proven them wrong,” said the stocky grey-haired Colovian in the fine Legion armour as he walked along the line of condemned prisoners in Helgen’s village square. “Not one but two traitors will be executed today. The Empire will breathe a sigh of relief when the both of you are heads on pikes.”

Rustem allowed his mirth to bubble up in a darkly amused laugh. “All you’re doing by executing us is digging your own grave, Tullius. Do you _really_ want a pair of Shieldmaidens running the Stormcloaks and Dark Brotherhood? Because you’re about to enjoy the experience of having two amoral ruthless women as your enemies. I hope you have fun.”

“We will bring them to justice as we have you,” Tullius said grimly.

“Don’t count your heads until they’re on pikes,” Rustem advised pleasantly.

“I’ll be counting yours and Ulfric’s within a few minutes,” the General retorted.

Alas for Tullius, that wasn’t to be thanks to the big black dragon that landed on the watchtower and proceeded to lay waste to Helgen just before Rustem was executed. While he wasn’t overly fond of the Stormcloaks given his ex-wife’s associations, he could count on them not to stab him in the back, so he followed the rangy blond and Ulfric’s eldest boy into Helgen Keep. They killed a lot of Imperial soldiers, a few spiders and even a bear before emerging from the cave to see Alduin fly off with a roar of what sounded like disappointment. Who else could the big black bastard be?

“Here’s to hoping Alduin’s the kind to savour his meals,” rumbled Bjarni, who had Ulfric’s build and features but Sigdrifa’s colouring of dark hair and blue-green eyes. “Because if he can do _that_ to Tullius’ personal guard, even the hearthfolk of the Stormcloaks will be hard-pressed to hold him off.”

“The Bruma Fourth’s one of the best Legions in Cyrodiil,” Rustem observed, hanging his borrowed iron war axe from the belt of his temporary Stormcloak uniform.

“And my father’s hearthfolk have been extensively trained in Legion and even Shieldmaiden techniques,” Bjarni answered. “Legion combat-training is more generalised unless you’ve got the cash or the strength to pay a Guild trainer. My father’s personal guard is chosen from the best of those who survive our modified Legion-style training and then drilled by my mother or one of her hand-picked trainers. Lots of Legion veterans and ex-Shieldmaidens running around in the Old Holds. We’ve even looked into trying to find any surviving Blades.”

“Those who survive might sympathise with the Stormcloaks but they’ll have no love for your mother,” Rustem told him candidly. “I can tell you that the survivors in the Jeralls asked for help twice from your mother and she refused.”

Bjarni grimaced. “She says she has her reasons. I honestly didn’t want to know them.”

“We better get to Riverwood and warn my sister Gerdur, the village hetwoman,” advised the blond Ralof. “I don’t think we’d be lucky enough for that damned dragon to eat Tullius or Hadvar.”

“Wise man,” Rustem agreed pleasantly. “I have a job in Whiterun, so if you can stand to be around the dreaded Rustem Aurelius, I’ll accompany you.”

Ralof gave a short sharp laugh. “Better you than those damned faithless Imperials.”

“Agreed,” Bjarni said softly. Rustem wondered just what the boy had been told but decided not to pry.

It was a nice enough walk to Riverwood, interrupted only by a few wolves, and Rustem listened to Ralof and Bjarni speculate about the possible identity of the Last Dragonborn. Many of the dragon-souled heroes had been born among the Nords and left their blood in the populace; Ralof, a descendant of King Olaf, was as likely a candidate as the Atmoran-bred Bjarni. Rustem could only hope it wasn’t Sigdrifa. She didn’t need the help to be a ruthless nigh-genocidal tyrant.

**_“It isn’t Sigdrifa,”_** observed the Night Mother amusedly.

“Praise Satakal for that,” Rustem muttered, thumbing the knucklebone he wore around his neck to hear the Unholy Matron’s voice at all times. He wasn’t much good at taking orders, he’d admit, but the Night Mother was always reasonable in Her requests. Irritating Astrid (and by extension Sigdrifa) was a bonus. “Any clues as to who? We need to make sure the poor bastard’s not accidentally assassinated.”

**_“There’s no fear of that. Talos and Akatosh were_ quite _persuasive. There are only a few suitable candidates of the dragon-blood to begin with and most of them were either sworn to other powers or totally unsuitable to bear the awesome power of the Voice. Talos wanted Cirroc but Sura-HoonDing told Him to… well, I won’t repeat what He said but it was certainly descriptive.”_**

Rustem snorted. He’d met the god who’d been Cyrus the Restless a few times at the pub. Maybe if Satakal hadn’t marked Rustem from birth as His, he’d have taken up service to the Avatar who kicked the Empire’s arse and found a way to give Talos the finger in doing so. Nothing like starting off your career by pissing off ancestral deities responsible for most of your family’s woes.

**_“The Empire’s dead and it’s going to be more dead by the time we’re done with it,”_** the Night Mother continued cheerfully. **_“Akatosh is fairly philosophical about it, given the idiocy of the Medes.”_**

“I can bear the suffering of the Medes with great fortitude,” Rustem observed with equal cheer. “So, who’s the Last Dragonborn?”

**_“Haven’t you been Listening? You are.”_**

Rustem stopped dead in his tracks as Ralof went to greet his sister. “You’re joking.”

**_“I most certainly am not. Akatosh agreed to it because Alduin’s too big for his britches. Talos agreed to it because you’re going to destroy the man who denied His divinity to save his own skin.”_** The Night Mother’s tone turned thoughtful. **_“You have been given a contract to kill Alduin and your payment will be in dragon souls. Swallow his worldskin, so All That Is may continue, for without it… how can we know the All That Is Not which is Sithis?”_**

“I understand,” Rustem said softly. A contract was a contract and while he hated taking orders, he accepted the Night Mother’s bargain when he became Listener. He could kill anyone he ever wanted, all the enemies under the sky who threatened his family, and in return he relayed the voice of his Mother to the Brotherhood. Alduin was formidable, but Rustem was a Son of Satakal, the World-Hunger and God of Everything.

Then he grinned. “Sigdrifa’s going to _love_ the news. I might give the Stormcloaks a hand… so I can take the victory from her.”

**_“You are amazingly petty sometimes, you know that?”_**

“I know. And it’s so fun.”


	2. Hawk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and war crimes.

“You handle yourself well. You could make for a decent Shield-Brother.”

Rustem smiled ruefully at the lithe redhead in ancient armour that appeared little more than strategic leather straps and steel plates. “Thanks for the compliment but I don’t think me and the Companions would suit each other.”

“That’s Akatosh’s own truth!” snapped the young woman in fine scale armour. “Aela, Farkas, this is Rustem Aurelius and there’s a ten-thousand septim bounty on his head for the death of Decius Mede.”

“Ten thousand?” Rustem murmured. “I didn’t think that old bastard Mede valued Decius so much.”

“We don’t get involved in politics, Ria,” Aela said after a moment’s pause. “If you feel your honour demands attempting to execute him, we can’t stop you… but we won’t help you either. There are some fights even the Companions won’t pick.”

“Titus Mede ceded the southern shores of Hammerfell to the Dominion and then had the balls to send Decius to demand tribute from the northern half,” Rustem told her frankly. “I don’t pretend to be a nice man but _our_ honour demanded the bastard’s head.”

“Assassins have honour?” Farkas rumbled.

“The Children of Satakal do. We never kill innocents and our duty is to swallow the worldskins of those who would smother the worldskins of others. The days of the Empire are done. Time for something new to grow from its ashes.”

“I can’t believe this,” Ria said in disbelief. “Are you two so scared of Rustem that you won’t-?”

“We could probably take him in a fight,” Aela interrupted, “But none of us would walk away intact and at least one of us would die. The Dark Brotherhood would retaliate quite viciously and both our orders would likely perish. There are better people in the world than Rustem Aurelius, it’s true. But would you sacrifice Kodlak, Tilma or the Grey-Manes on the altar of vengeance? Because we won’t.”

“Astrid was a Shieldmaiden and she’s just as vicious as Sigdrifa,” Rustem agreed grimly. “Is that a fight you think you can win?”

She blanched and Rustem took that as a no. He had suspicions about her identity… but while he wasn’t a nice man, he didn’t wish to provoke a fight with the Companions. She probably hadn’t even told Ysgramor’s heirs her real identity, but that was their problem to solve.

“Collect the giant’s toes and deliver them to Arcadia while we collect our pay from Severio,” suggested Farkas kindly. “Then let Kodlak know we ain’t seen that black dragon today.”

She obeyed and Rustem sighed. “I wouldn’t want to get into a fight with the Huntress and a Hero-Twin myself. That could have spelt the end of my career.”

“It’s never too late to walk the path of honour,” Farkas rumbled.

“I’m the Listener, big guy. My home will be the Void… and I’m fine with that.” Rustem smiled cheerfully. “Any offending parties you’d like dead but can’t touch? I’m not above a little friendly execution as a professional courtesy.”

Aela snorted. “We can handle those but thanks for the offer. What brings you to Whiterun?”

“Business… and someone needs to let Balgruuf know what happened at Helgen. Tullius nearly got his wish of me and Ulfric dead but Alduin ruined his day.”

“That dragon was Alduin World-Eater?” Aela asked urgently.

“Yep. I was a Blade and there was only one black dragon in existence. The Night Mother confirmed my suspicions.”

“Well, if these are the end times, we will meet with them our swords drawn and our heads held high,” Aela said proudly.

“Try not to die bravely. Alduin has a bad habit of eating the souls of Nord heroes in Sovngarde, the old dragonlore says.” Rustem sighed. “The Last Dragonborn’s around, so it won’t be the end of days.”

“Praise Hircine.” So the rumours of the senior Companions being werewolves were true. Well, maybe that was why they didn’t want to pick fights with the Brotherhood.

“Let me know if you encounter any dragons,” Rustem told her. “Akatosh put out a contract on Alduin… and it’s my job to see it fulfilled.”

“Ah. I wondered why you smelt like hot spice and iron,” Aela observed. “We will, Son of Satakal. Go in peace.”

“Musta been a hell of a Black Sacrament,” Farkas mused.

“Go in peace,” Rustem answered with a smile.

He crossed the field to Whiterun and was able to talk the guard into letting him in. The city was one of the few prospering in Skyrim because its Jarl had more than half a brain and Rustem was able to trade much of his loot at Belethor’s General Store in return for more portable gems and coins. Eorlund Grey-Mane bought his Stormcloak gear with a wry smile and now armoured in good leather with a dwarven greatsword, Rustem felt almost normal again.

He was crossing the city square with its dead Gildergreen when he encountered two women arguing under it. One was Danica Pure-Spring, noted for her skills as a healer as far away as Hammerfell, and the other was a compact woman with long black hair braided with hawk feathers. “Who are you to tell me what is blasphemy?” demanded the former of the latter.

“Only the woman who has completed the Sacred Trials of Kyne and delivered a new sapling from the Eldergleam to replace the tree struck by the Goddess’ own lightning,” responded the black-haired woman calmly. “Taking Nettlebane – itself a sacred object of the Forsworn – to cut sap from the Eldergleam, likely provoking Kyne’s own spriggans to retaliate on the pilgrims who live there, and restore a tree that was dead would have been blasphemy, Danica. From death comes life. If you want to try and preserve or revive something dead, take up necromancy.”

“I’m the High Priestess of Kynareth!”

“So am I,” the other priestess said dryly. “Unless you’re about to tell me that the old ways don’t count?”

“There are those who would say that the ways of the heathens don’t count,” Danica retorted.

“You sound like my mother. Maybe you should work for Talos instead of Kyne.”

“A heathen acknowledges the divinity of Talos?”

“I acknowledge he’s a god. I also acknowledge he’s an absolute cunt of one.”

Rustem burst out laughing. He liked this priestess.

Danica looked past her rival to give him a sour glance. “Do what you want. You always do, Hawk.”

The priestess stalked off and Hawk sighed. “Few of the Imperialised worshippers of Kyne are comfortable with the darker aspects of the goddess. But I suspect you’re familiar with that, aren’t you… Dragonborn?”

“They’re going to become more familiar with the darker gods by the time I’m through,” Rustem admitted. “I’m guessing Kynareth gave you a heads up?”

She turned to face him. Sigdrifa’s features were softened by the roundedness of his own, the aquiline prow of an overlarge nose and Nord-high cheekbones marked by turquoise tattoos that could have been the mask of a hawk or a dragon depending on how someone saw them. Blue-green eyes stained with gold, seawater over sand, regarded Rustem with far too much knowledge for his comfort and an ancient power that made his own wary.

“You are the Last Dragonborn because Kyne has other duties for me,” said his daughter. “Akatosh and Talos may think themselves the Lords of the Thu’um but it is Kyne who gave mortals that ability. Remember that should you be tempted to misuse your sacred gifts.”


	3. Milking It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, adultery, incompatible mixed-orientation marriage and war crimes.

“We’ve already thrown one of you lot in jail for sneaking into the city,” snapped the city guard. “Do you want to join him?”

“Let me guess, he’s a rude man with a garish burnoose and an attitude problem,” Cirroc observed calmly. “That makes him a Crown. They think they’re the sum of human creation and get offended when you correct them. Forebears are far politer and generally more intelligent thanks to a lack of noble inbreeding.”

One of the guards snorted. “Sounds about right. You’re not going to haul up every Redguard woman in the city and accuse her of being a traitor, are you?”

“Unlike this idiot you speak of, _I_ will be far more discreet. Iman al-Suda is a woman in her late thirties with a facial scar, noted for her sensual demeanour and voice,” Cirroc told him. “She will, obviously, be using another name.”

“Seductive minx, eh? Is it wise to send a young man after her then?” mused the guard.

Cirroc snorted. “ _I’m_ not interested in women.”

“Ha! That must make your life easier.” The guard waved him through the gate. “Try talking to the Jarl’s Steward first. He’ll save you pissing off half of Whiterun.”

Practically the first person Cirroc saw on entering the city was his father talking to the handsome Cyrod woman wearing a blacksmith’s apron as she sharpened a copper-bright Dwemer greatsword. Rustem was being entirely professional, no doubt due to the wedding band on her finger, and they chatted about the dragon attack at the western watchtower. Cirroc had seen the dragon burst into light and become bleached bone after its flesh was absorbed by his father. Satakal must have taken matters in hand and given Rustem the power to destroy these engines of destruction.

“Balgruuf will make you Thane,” the blacksmith noted in her deep voice.

“Then I hope he’s prepared to support the Stormcloaks,” Rustem observed. “The Empire’s time is done.”

She grimaced, sparks flying from the sword’s edge. “If Sigdrifa and Ulfric weren’t running things, he’d be a lot more enthusiastic about it. But what does a Redguard care about who rules in Skyrim?”

“The Empire betrayed both our nations with the White-Gold Concordat after we won them the victory,” Rustem told her. “If Mede hadn’t done that…”

“Mede was forced to by the Bruma Rebellion,” the blacksmith countered.

“Arius was a fucking idiot, we can agree on that,” Rustem said mildly. “But I lost family and friends to the Thalmor. That’s not a thing I can forgive.”

She handed him the greatsword in return for a purse of gold. “Be wary of the Stormcloaks. They won’t like that the Dragonborn isn’t a Nord.”

“After I Shout a few arse over tit, they’ll come around.” Rustem’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but few would notice.

Cirroc waited until his father left the smithy to approach him. “Dragonborn?”

“My boy!” Rustem gave him a fierce hug. Whatever his failings as a husband, he’d always done his best to be a father to Cirroc. “What are you doing in Skyrim?”

“Hunting Iman al-Suda and Lu’ah al-Skaven,” Cirroc answered, returning the hug. “Why are you sucking dragon bones clean like a cherry pip?”

“The Dragonborn thing.” Rustem led him away from the smithy. “Alduin, who seems to be an upstart facet of Satakal who’d rather conquer than devour worldskins, has returned and it’s my job to remind him of his place. Akatosh approached Sithis and the Night Mother to see it done. I’m Dragonborn like Martin Septim or Talos, only without the whole trying to rule the world thing.”

“Only because you hate paperwork,” Cirroc said dryly, earning a laugh from his father.

“I think it’s more because your sister didn’t want the job, Irkand’s just an Imperial puppet and Sura-HoonDing didn’t let them awaken your own dragon blood,” Rustem murmured.

“Hawk paid a visit, did she?” Cirroc asked as they headed towards the marketplace.

Rustem gave him a startled glance. “You know about her?”

“Only through letters. Mother didn’t tell you?”

“No.” Rustem sighed. “It might have been Hawk’s call though. That woman is touched by Kyne and reminded me that my gift was from her goddess and I’d better not misuse it.”

“Sounds like Hawk.” They reached the marketplace. “Do you need help with killing dragons? Even Sura-HoonDing only killed the one.”

“The more, the merrier.” Rustem led him into the local inn. “Feel free to use my room. I need to tell Balgruuf his dragon problem’s dealt with.”

“Thanks. I had to pay a substantial bribe to get in here.” Cirroc studied the common room and noted the Redguard woman serving drinks. “Who’s that?”

“Saadia, who matches the description of a certain traitor from Taneth,” Rustem murmured. “She’s been here long enough to have legal protection. Balgruuf rules by law, not by whim. He’s a good Jarl like that, even if it’s a pain in the arse.”

“I have proof… unlike that idiot Kematu, who gathered up his men and rode for the border like the wind once he found out a Forebear Sword-Saint was after her,” Cirroc assured him. “Even if we can get her thrown out of the city…”

Rustem’s smile was grim. “I can get her to leave of her own free will. I heard two of Kematu’s morons abusing the guards earlier. All I need to tell her is that I’m sympathetic and will help her escape.”

“She’d believe you?”

“I’m very persuasive.” Rustem sighed. “But let’s wait until I tell Balgruuf what happened and he knows I’m the Dragonborn. Nords will be very accommodating for a legend come to life.”

“You intend to milk this for all it’s worth, don’t you?”

“’A reputation for greatness saves one from inconvenience’.” Rustem smiled. “What’s the point of being the world’s saviour if you can’t use it to make your family’s life easier?”


	4. The Meaning of Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of war crimes, imprisonment and religious conflict.

“It’s wonderful we’re getting to travel together as a family.”

“I don’t trust you wandering the Old Holds without adult supervision,” Hawk told Rustem bluntly.

“You’ve inherited your mother’s unpleasant attitude, I see.”

“Oh no. I developed _that_ on my own. Mother sends assassins after people who irritate her.”

“Father being the Listener must be sticking in her craw,” Cirroc said amusedly.

“It _has_ made her pull her head in. I suppose even the dark gods can provide the odd blessing.” Hawk’s expression went distant as above them, a Jeralls hawk screamed and flew around the Throat of the World. It seemed the name she went by was more than just a reference to her goddess’ totemic creature; she could use the senses of nearby wild creatures, including her hawk familiar, and even walk by a bear unharmed. “There’s no major conflicts around High Hrothgar. We should be alright.”

“Pity we can’t climb the mountain to reach the monastery,” Rustem sighed, earning a glare of disapproval from both his children.

“It takes a thousand swings to appreciate the perfect feint,” Cirroc said severely. “If the Greybeards are anything like the Ansei, you’ll be learning humility before a Shout.”

**_“Patience, Rustem,”_** the Night Mother agreed. **_“I know your birthsign is the Steed, but it doesn’t mean you need to gallop everywhere.”_**

Rustem grimaced. He wasn’t a patient man.

Still, it was a beautiful late summer’s day as they skirted the foothills of the Throat of the World to take the northern path to Ivarstead along the bottom end of the Aalto volcanic tundra. Bandits at Valtheim Towers and necromancers at Fort Amol provided amusement along the way, though Cirroc nearly got himself spitted a few times because he was a duelist, not a warrior. “You’ll need to learn more styles,” Rustem advised his son as Hawk piled the dead onto a pyre and burned them. His daughter had inherited Sigdrifa’s neat streak. “Go join the Companions for a few moons when you’ve dealt with Lu’ah. It’ll broaden your education.”

“We’ll see. I intend to kill a few dragons first.”

“There’s one in the tundra,” Hawk reported. “Alduin has set his vassals to guard the Word Walls.”

“New Words and the souls to unlock them? Alduin’s none too bright,” Cirroc noted.

“He’s the embodiment of Akatosh’s destructive principle. Intelligence isn’t necessary when you’re a one-dragon destruction machine.”

“You know a lot about dragons,” Rustem said. “Didn’t realise Esbern and Wulfgar taught you so much.”

“Wulfgar took me to High Hrothgar when Cloud Ruler Temple fell. There hadn’t been a female Tongue in Skyrim for a few generations until I was trained. The Way of the Voice was a little too passive for me, so I left High Hrothgar, tracked down Esbern and learned the rest of the Akaviri dragonlore.” Hawk set the pyre alight with a flick of her hand and some flames. “The prophecy would be fulfilled in my life, I knew that, so I prepared for and tried to delay it for as long as I could. But you know Mother and Ulfric.”

“Does she know you’re alive?” Rustem asked.

“Given I told her that if she continued to persecute the Nords who followed the old ways, I’d destroy every shrine of Talos I came across with the power of my Voice… and I’d just destroyed three pirate ships with Storm Call… she damned well knows I’m alive,” Hawk said dryly. “That’s why I’m not the Dragonborn – I serve the proactive principle of Kyne. It’s my job to be the wrath of nature. Akatosh just needs Alduin dead. That’s your job.”

“Did she send assassins after you?” Cirroc asked.

“One, possibly. After I disarmed him, I politely explained that if he tried it again, I would send Astrid’s head to Mother on a silver platter. To give Veezara credit, he didn’t realise I was our father’s daughter until I told him exactly who I was.” Hawk led them from Fort Amol. “But it could have been someone who didn’t like the last of the Aurelii running around with the ability to decimate armies. Our family has many enemies and Father seems intent on adding more.”

“Not too many,” Rustem assured her. “I kill most of them these days.”

“That’s reassuring to know.” Yes, Hawk had inherited Sigdrifa’s sarcasm in spades.

The tundra dragon wasn’t much of a fight, given it had already had the crap beaten out of by a pair of giants and a mammoth, and Rustem absorbed its soul to learn a Word from some kind of ice Shout. From here, he could see the ugly grey bulk of Windhelm. It rather matched Sigdrifa’s soul, honestly.

“Don’t,” Hawk said flatly. “We don’t need you provoking the Stormcloaks.”

“I intend to lend them a hand,” Rustem assured her.

“You’d win their battles for them?” Cirroc asked in disbelief.

“No. I’d just take the credit of the victory from Sigdrifa.”

“Kyne’s windy cunt, has it ever occurred to one of you to _grow the fuck up_?” Hawk asked acidly. “Both of you sucked in that marriage, speaking as the offspring of it. There are days – most of them, actually – I wish I was a bloody orphan because the pair of you are bigger children than Jarl Skald, and he’s a two-year-old brat in an eighty-something-year-old body.”

Her words stung but was what salt in the wound was the look of agreement in Cirroc’s eyes. His new family had never judged him for what happened in Cyrodiil but Safiya had treated him more as a friend with benefits – which he preferred – than as a confidante and spouse. Rustem wanted to explain what happened but he knew that Hawk would give him no sympathy and Cirroc wouldn’t even understand since he was much like Sigdrifa in his ways.

“I would have let it go if your mother hadn’t sent an assassin after me that nearly poisoned Safiya’s entire household,” he finally told her.

“You both lived what you learned,” Hawk conceded. “But the cycle should have stopped with your generation. Neither of you are stupid. Middle ground could have been found and once Arius was dead, you could have divorced her. You were the First Blade, Father. You could have used your power to set him aside as Grandmaster. Delphine and Esbern would have backed you. Mother would have cooperated if you promised a divorce. Someone could have countered his Illusion magic.”

“We were planning to-“

“No, you talked about it and did jack shit.” Hawk’s voice was low but harsh. “Power brings responsibility. Delphine would have made a good Grandmaster if you didn’t want the job. You chose to avoid your responsibilities. Even Irkand kept his oaths better than you.”

“I don’t like to lead,” Rustem said weakly.

“You don’t have to. But as Dragonborn, you’re an example to others. As Listener, you relay the words of the Night Mother to your brethren.” Hawk turned for the path back down to the tundra. “’Speak only in true need’. That’s the Way of the Voice. If the ancient Tongues were as irresponsible as you are with your power, I’m beginning to sympathise a little more with the Greybeards. True power isn’t in doing what you want – _it is in how that power affects those around you_.”

“No one blames the sword for how it is forged,” Cirroc agreed soberly. “But it’s how you swing it that counts.”

For the first time in a very long time, Rustem wept. And despite his daughter’s harsh words and his son’s agreement with them, he was forced to admit they were right.


	5. Everything's Under Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

Hawk left them in Ivarstead, citing need for her presence at Eldergleam Sanctuary. Cirroc was a little surprised to realise he’d miss her, if only because she said things to their father that should have been said years ago. Rustem had been subdued, even thoughtful – a rare state for him.

“At least she didn’t have to outright threaten me the way she did her mother,” he finally said to Cirroc. “Even Talos Himself couldn’t shift Sigdrifa when she’s being stubborn.”

“She reminds me of Grandpa as an instructor,” Cirroc admitted as he eyed the seven thousand steps. It was almost dusk. “Stay at the inn and hike up there in the morning? Hawk said there were animals on the path.”

“Great minds think alike.”

The Vilemyr Inn was a pleasant village pub with its own resident bard/waitress, decent food and bug-free beds. “Rare to see Redguards around here,” the barkeeper noted as they paid for bedrolls by the fire. “Have you heard about the Greybeards’ call? The Dragonborn will be passing through here!”

“He already has,” Rustem said amusedly.

“One of you is the Dragonborn?”

“I am,” Rustem confirmed. “If any dragons pay a visit, let me know. My naginata was forged to kill the scaly bastards.”

“Dragonborn, I’m honoured.”

“That passes when you get to know me,” Rustem said wryly. “I’m more used to being asked to leave town by angry fathers than being welcomed as a hero of legend.”

Willem laughed. “Yeah, you look like a bit of a rogue. Don’t let Fastred catch wind of you. She’ll dump Bassianus and Klimmek in a heartbeat to catch the Dragonborn for a husband.”

“I’m sure Fastred’s a lovely lass but I’m also sure I’ve got a daughter older than her if she was the girl reaping the wheat outside,” Rustem told him ruefully. “I don’t rob cradles.”

“Good to know.”

News spread quickly that the Dragonborn was staying at the local pub and while Fastred didn’t make eyes at Rustem, she was definitely trying to make them at Cirroc. Why were people so dazzled by proximity to fame and glory? It was one of the many aspects of romantic life he didn’t get.

When he asked his father, who certainly knew how women worked, Rustem pursed his lips. “I guess it’s like they want it to rub off on them,” he finally said. “Kind of like how everyone wants to be your mother’s favourite courtier. Some folks, I’m told, even crush on the famous as a kind of daydream.”

“I thought you understood that kind of thing,” Cirroc said.

“The sexual aspects, sure. I’ve never fallen in romantic love – I know it exists and I’d never meddle in that kind of thing – but it’s something I don’t get either.” Rustem shrugged. “Leila at Mowhra’s Pearl told me it’s natural some folks just aren’t interested. You’re more like Sigdrifa than me.”

“I understand the need for alliance and procreation but the rest seems a waste of time,” Cirroc agreed. “But even I know you were a shit husband to Sigdrifa, Father.”

“I was,” Rustem admitted with a sigh. “Hawk made that abundantly clear. She probably hates me and I can’t blame her.”

“I think she’s more disappointed in both of you.” Cirroc unrolled the bedroll, thinking back to the letters he and his sister had shared. “I do know why Akatosh picked you instead of her as Dragonborn though. If she’d had that much power at her fingertips, there’d be a lot of people Shouted into the sea.”

Rustem laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll Shout them for her.”

“That’s why you’re a good father, for all your flaws.”

…

“Well, that was enlightening,” Rustem said sourly as he and Cirroc left High Hrothgar three days later. “Here’s part of a Shout and a command to desecrate someone’s tomb. They couldn’t – or wouldn’t – tell me shit about Alduin.”

“I get the feeling they’re very disconnected from the world,” Cirroc agreed soberly. “No wonder Hawk left them when she was younger. Even the most cloistered Sword-Saint understands that enlightenment as much action as it is contemplation.”

“I’m fairly certain the average Sword-Saint is about ten times more useful than the average Greybeard,” Rustem muttered.

“Of course we are. But don’t tell them that. They were pissed enough you were Akaviri blood.”

“You picked that up too?” Rustem asked in disbelief.

“Half of winning a duel’s reading your opponent. Arngeir took it almost personally that an Aurelii was a Dragonborn, Einarth and Borri were wary about you, and only Wulfgar seemed committed. But he taught Hawk.”

“Wulfgar was once the Blades’ resident Tongue,” Rustem told his son. “He knows what Alduin’s return means.”

Hawk had returned to Ivarstead in their absence. His priestess daughter was clad in her usual garb of homespun, fur and hawk feathers but this time she carried a spear with a strange ice-blue point. “I found Lu’ah al-Skaven,” she said without preamble to Cirroc. “She’s desecrating Anvilsund, the burial place of two ancient Nord warriors and their daughter Queen Freydis.”

“After her husband died and was burned by the Legion, she went insane,” Cirroc said grimly. “Wanted to drive out the Thalmor with an army of the dead.”

“’In her 29th summer of life, Fjori the huntress met the warlord Holgeir on the field of battle. None remember what they fought over, for their love to come was so great it overshadowed all rivalries or disputes. They fought to a standstill, as their followers looked on - till her sword broke his axe and his shield dulled her blade and all could see that they were equals’,” Hawk quoted softly.

“Nords preserve their dead, right?” Cirroc asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes. The ancients were quite competent at the art.” Hawk folded her arms. “Lu’ah’s a necromancer and there’s a pair of buried lovers. I can only imagine what her plans are.”

“Do you want to do this alone?” Rustem asked his son.

“So long as I deliver her head to Grandpa in Solitude, he won’t care how it’s done,” Cirroc answered. “She’s a priestess of Tu’whacca who’s violated her vows. It’s my duty to bring her to justice.”

“There’s a blacksmith in Windhelm who’s wanting their daughter Freydis’ sword for Ulfric,” Hawk said quietly. “If you want a way to make contact with the Stormcloaks without being a raging dickhead, it’s a start.”

“Here’s to hoping your mother doesn’t send me to prison as soon as I enter the city,” Rustem observed ruefully.

“Mother’s many things, but stupid isn’t one of them.” Hawk’s smile was wintry. “Give me a good description of her expression when she finds out you’re the Dragonborn. I need a good laugh.”

“You could come with us,” Cirroc offered.

Hawk shook her head. “If there’s any Blades left, they’ll make contact at Ustengrav. Knowing Delphine, it will be her and she’ll find a way to piss on Jurgen’s tomb because she’s petty like that. It’s going to take both Blade and Greybeard wisdom to win this… so don’t go burning any bridges just yet.”

“Are you sure you’re not just avoiding your mother? I imagine you two didn’t part on good terms when you threatened to Shout Talos shrines into dust,” Rustem observed.

“Bjarni and Egil know who I am. Just like Cyrodiil during the Oblivion Crisis, there’s a lot going on in Skyrim beyond the return of the dragons, and a lot of factions who are trying to take advantage of it.” Hawk sighed. “The Thalmor are more active and the Legion’s getting back into the swing of things. Be careful, both of you.”

“Don’t worry,” Rustem assured her. “We’ve got it under control.”

“I’ve heard of your version of ‘under control’,” Hawk said dryly. “It generally involves something being on fire while Daedra cartwheel in the background.”

“I put it out… eventually.”

“It’s the eventually that worries me.”


	6. Offering Assistance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, war crimes, imprisonment and child abandonment. The long-awaited chapter about Sigdrifa’s reaction. Enjoy!

“Look at the edge on it! They really knew how to forge a sword in those days,” said Oengus War-Anvil as he admired the ancient blade.

“Good enough for a Nord, I suppose,” Cirroc observed. “To make a truly great sword, you should follow the Forging Maxims in the _Book of Circles_.”

“Cirroc,” Rustem chided. “Have some manners. ‘Each man forges a sword to his own specifications’.”

His son rolled his eyes. “You quoting the Forging Maxims. What’s next, a soul sword?”

“Why worry about one of those when I can Shout an offending enemy on his arse and run him through?” Rustem coughed awkwardly. “Don’t tell Hawk that. She’d probably take it as misusing the Thu’um or something.”

“I’d heard the rumours of the Dragonborn being a Redguard,” Oengus said in awe. “I didn’t expect him to bring Freydis’ blade to me though.”

“We were in Anvilsund dealing with a renegade Redguard and picked it up along the way,” Rustem admitted. “Is Skyrim still for the Nords or can a Redguard who kills Legionaries for fun and recreation lend his Voice to the cause?”

“Despite what everyone says, Ulfric’s ranks are open to anyone who is willing to fight for religious freedom,” the apprentice blacksmith, a pretty black-haired girl, said with a smile.

“I acknowledge Talos is a god. Sure, our own version Sura-HoonDing gave him a serve of humble pie during the Tiber War, but we acknowledge his divinity,” Cirroc assured her. “The Empire is a failed state that has betrayed its two most loyal provinces. Let it – and those damned blackcoat elves – be consigned to the dustbin of history.”

“Well said!” Oengus approved. “Look, if you want me to fix your arms and armour, let me know. It’s the least I can do unless you want a few lessons in smithing.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Rustem promised. “May you die with a sword in your hand.”

“May the gods watch over your battles, friends.”

“Hawk was right,” Cirroc observed as they left the marketplace. “Not being a raging dickhead _does_ open doors.”

“Getting schooled by my children in my old age. Satakal preserve my soul.”

The Palace of the Kings was a grandiosely named pile of blocky basalt that had only massiveness to recommend it. Inside wasn’t much better, Ulfric slouched on a stone throne between two iron braziers exchanging words with his consort Galmar Stone-Fist, with the dulcet tones of Sigdrifa Stormsword interjecting from a room to the side like a raven with laryngitis and a snot-blocked nose.

_Behave,_ Rustem firmly reminded himself.

Ulfric sat up in his seat as Rustem approached. “What brings the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood here?”

_“What?”_ Sigdrifa clanked out of the side room in her iconic bear-carved totemic plate. Much like himself, her hair was salt-and-pepper, and the years had carved grim lines into her harsh austere features.

“Astrid didn’t tell you?” Rustem asked in some surprise. “I thought you were old schoolfriends.”

“Father,” Cirroc sighed. “You promised Hawk you’d behave.”

“What’s Hawk’s business in all of this?” Galmar growled. “She flits back and forth Skyrim like a summer breeze for only the gods know what purpose.”

“Kyne’s purpose,” Cirroc told him. “Take it from the Sword-Saint in service to Leki of the Aberrant Blade. That woman is touched by her god.”

“You favour your mother, lad. I’m guessing you got your brains from her too,” Galmar answered wryly.

“Her common sense. It certainly isn’t an Aurelii trait,” Cirroc agreed ruefully.

Galmar laughed. “So we’ve noticed.”

“As for your question, Ulfric, how shall I put it?” Rustem pursed his lips with perhaps a bit too much exaggeration. “Akatosh and Talos made a contract with the Night Mother to have Alduin executed and they’re paying me in dragon souls. Being the Empire-hating chap that I am, I thought I’d stop by and lend my Voice on occasion to the Stormcloak cause. Enemy of my enemy and all that.”

Sigdrifa, for all her many, many flaws, was not a dense woman. Her skin went milk-white in shock just before her blue-green eyes rolled to the back of her head and she collapsed in a noisy clattering heap.

“Was it the revelation of me being Dragonborn or my offer of assistance that did it?” Rustem asked lightly.

“Father!” Cirroc said, rolling his eyes.

Galmar strode over, peeled back an eyelid, and grunted. “Just shock. Let me get the smelling salts.”

Sigdrifa spluttered back to consciousness after Galmar waved the smelling salts under her nose. All the while Ulfric sat on his throne watching Rustem and Cirroc steadily.

“I will not have my victory gained by assassins or their get,” the Jarl of Windhelm finally said.

“Believe us, Ulfric, we weren’t going to win the war for you,” Cirroc told him candidly. “A Redguard lends his blade to a cause, not fights the war for the righteous warrior.”

“When I asked Hammerfell for assistance, they refused me,” Ulfric countered.

“Because you wanted a battalion of soldiers when you hadn’t done anything particularly noteworthy,” Cirroc pointed out coolly. “Win a Hold or two more and you might be worth more than the odd bit of assistance.”

“And you’re telling _me_ to behave?” Rustem muttered under his breath.

“If Hawk sent you here, she had a reason,” Galmar rumbled. “I remember her last visit.”

“Trying to forcibly convert her co-religionists to Talos worship when they worshipped the ancient Nord gods was a bit against that whole ‘religious freedom’ thing,” Rustem drawled. “As for using assassins, has Sigdrifa forsworn the use of the Brotherhood? Astrid’s going to be disappointed if she has.”

“Redguards aren’t the only ones who need to be impressed,” Sigdrifa said weakly as she struggled to her feet. Telling that neither Ulfric nor Galmar helped her up. “Galmar tells us that the Jagged Crown is located at Korvanjund in the Pale. Deliver it to us and I might believe in your sincerity.”

“Twenty-seven years and you still can’t say please,” Rustem observed.

“What’s the point? You were never grateful for anything I did.”

“That’s not true. I was grateful you ended our marriage, if not quite the means of doing it.”

“Hawk once told me she cast Muffle on you two when she was seven,” Cirroc said to no one in particular. “I’m beginning to think she was on to something.”

“I’ll get your damned Crown,” Rustem told Sigdrifa. “So you better start practicing ‘thank you’.”

“I’ll thank Talos because I doubt anything less than divine intervention would make you do something useful.”

“Leki’s left-handed parry, you two are the most childish people I know,” Cirroc said with a sigh. “To quote Hawk – ‘grow the _fuck_ up’.”

“Priests are allowed to swear where you’re from?” Galmar asked the young man in surprise.

“Only to Nords. You need to preach to the congregation in their own tongue after all.”


	7. I am the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of war crimes, imprisonment and religious conflict.

“That looked painful!” Rustem said cheerfully as the swinging axe blades killed the last Legionary in Korvanjund.

“Your father’s an evil bastard,” Ralof, one of Ulfric’s agents, said with relish to Cirroc. “I like him.”

“He’s an assassin and a murderer and an adulterer and if he wasn’t the Dragonborn, someone would have justifiably stabbed him long ago,” Egil, the Stormsword’s youngest son, observed quietly. “I can only assume the gods chose him to defeat Alduin because he is so very good at killing yet has little ambition beyond that.”

“And your mother attempted genocide on the Reachfolk, sent an assassin to kill my mother’s entire household and left her own daughter to die at Cloud Ruler Temple,” Cirroc retorted. “If we’re discussing parental shortcomings, let us be thorough about it.”

Egil took the rebuke without a flinch. Taller than Cirroc with the athletic build and colouring of the Stormsword but Ulfric’s rugged features and deep voice, he was maybe a year or two older than the Sword-Saint but already an experienced cavalry commander and Expert-level Restorationist. Despite Sigdrifa wanting the two Redguards to acquire this Jagged Crown on their own, Bjarni Ulfricsson had collected his brother and hearthman and their personal guard to lend a hand. Cirroc was beginning to think that if these two were running the Stormcloaks, they’d be marching on Solitude to the cheers of just about everyone who wasn’t an Imperial loyalist or a Dominion agent.

Where Egil was as cool and calculating as his mother, though tempered with a sense of mercy the Stormsword lacked, Bjarni had the verve and charisma of their father Ulfric tempered by empathy for those who weren’t Nords. He was prodigiously strong, standing at the far side of six feet, and demonstrated a gift for Destruction and even Illusion magic. Egil was a master strategist but Bjarni would be the kind of commander whose soldiers would willingly die for him because he led by example.

_And his Illusion magic would bolster their courage,_ Cirroc mused as they pressed deeper into the ruins. _Thank the gods he’s not an expansionist._

“That the Legionaries were here indicates Rikke, if not Tullius, knew the Jagged Crown was likely located in this tomb,” Egil said after they’d destroyed some draugr. “It doesn’t bode well for our security.”

“Galmar’s agents found the location in the Bards College library. Makes sense that’s where Rikke got her intelligence too,” Ralof pointed out. “That Crown’s a powerful symbol of Skyrim. Whichever side has it can say they’re following in the footsteps of Ysgramor’s line.”

Cirroc rubbed the golden hilt of his sacred sword. A’Tor sympathised with the Nords to a certain extent, though he despised their worship of Talos. “I suppose it could be worse. If someone wielded the Sword of the Septims, that might think you were looking to rebuild Talos’ empire.”

“There are perhaps four people in the world who can unsheathe that sword and neither you nor your da have a desire to rule the Empire,” Bjarni answered bluntly. “Irkand wouldn’t live long enough to liberate it from the Temple of Talos in Windhelm and while Hawk proved the Aurelii were telling the truth of their Septim ancestry by drawing it, she made it clear she wasn’t going to promote the Talosite faith as a follower of the old ways.”

“Hawk’s very good at making things clear,” Cirroc agreed ruefully. “Thank the gods she’s on our side.”

The Jagged Crown was made from dragonbone and was quite possibly the ugliest damned thing Cirroc had ever seen. The draugr of King Borgias and his two huscarls wanted to keep the Crown, so there was a gods-awful fight against a zombie that could Shout like Rustem, but they succeeded in the end. His father even got a Word for a new Shout that had him rubbing his hands rather gleefully. Cirroc loved his father, but his father really was a man-child at times.

“Ha!” Ralof laughed. “It must suck to be a faithless Imperial today! We have the Jagged Crown and soon, we will have the victory!”

Cirroc said nothing. Never count your enemy dead until their head was in your hands.

…

“I suppose it’s something that you delivered your news with alcohol to settle my nerves,” Beroc told the fur-clad woman with hawk feathers braided through her long black hair. “I could think of others better than Rustem to face a demon-dragon.”

“And most of them would have developed Imperial ambitions,” the woman who called herself Hawk answered calmly. “Perhaps even myself.”

“I doubt that greatly,” Beroc assured her. How she’d snuck into Solitude, where half the populace would pike her head alongside Roggvir’s for being an Aurelii, was beyond him. Maybe she’d walked through a wall or something. Who knew?

Hawk tilted her head and in that movement, the tattoos on her face looked almost draconic and for a moment, Beroc fancied he saw a great golden dragon shining through her olive-bronze skin. Stuff and nonsense, of course. He was just stressed and tired from the political shitstorm that was the Skyrim civil war.

“The gods chose Rustem because he has no higher ambition than vengeance against the Empire,” she finally said. “Vengeance he will achieve. I brought this news as warning, Lord Beroc, because as the Empire is pressed harder it may choose to ignore diplomatic conventions in favour of a pre-emptive strike against you. After all, your son-in-law and grandson are fighting with the Stormcloaks. Who’s to say you’re not feeding them information?”

Beroc met the warning in those words and in the gaze squarely. He was a Redguard. He would not flinch from the possibility of his own death.

“If the Empire is so very stupid as to believe that and act upon it,” he said softly, grimly, “Then though I might die, I would go to the Far Shores knowing that my family would swiftly avenge me. I am no Nord, to gladly seek death in battle for a glorious afterlife of feasting and fighting and fucking. But I am no Cyrod to hide behind the ranks of the Legion and sign away my god to preserve my decrepit life either. My greater concern is-“

He kept it to himself. Hawk was the daughter of the Stormsword and while there was no love lost between them, she might take umbrage at his concerns. The woman, for all her Yokudan ancestry, was a Nord after all.

“Worry about yourself and Cirroc,” he told her instead. “You are not Dragonborn and while he wields the Spirit Sword, he’s not invincible.”

This time, there was no mistaking the dragon that looked out of Hawk’s eyes, no trick of the eye that could be blamed on exhaustion and worry.

“I am not the Dragonborn of the prophecy,” she said softly in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder, “Because I am the storm that preserves the world. But believe me, Lord Beroc, I _am_ Dragonborn… and if I must bring my power to bear, there will be a reckoning that shakes the very heavens themselves. That is why my father is the Last Dragonborn… because he will never be able to tear the skies asunder. But I can. Pray, my lord, it never comes to that.”


	8. Your Ego or Your Cause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

“What took you so long?” Balgruuf demanded as Rustem entered the throne room. “Tullius has sent me an ultimatum that if I don’t surrender the city to the Legion in a week, he’ll march on it!”

“Well, given I’ve already found the Jagged Crown for the Stormcloaks, this puts us in an awkward position,” Rustem observed blandly.

Balgruuf swore long and fluently, the Nord warlord emerging from the mask of the urbane trader-prince. “I’d hoped to remain neutral for longer, dammit! Do you realise what kind of disaster Ulfric and Sigdrifa would be as rulers of Skyrim?”

“Seeing as I was married to Sigdrifa for about ten years and have seen the shambles that is Windhelm, I can believe it, but there’s a lot of hope for Bjarni and Egil,” Rustem told him calmly. “Who says the Moot has to pick the Jarl of Windhelm?”

“The rules, actually,” Balgruuf said dourly. “Only a Jarl may become High King.”

“We parted from Bjarni and Egil this morning after coming through Haemar’s Pass,” Cirroc reassured the blond Jarl. “One of them will be Jarl of Falkreath within the week. Probably Bjarni, because he has a sense of diplomacy and isn’t a racist dickhead.”

“Egil’s not a racist dickhead. He’s just a self-righteous one,” Rustem said lightly, earning a laugh from Balgruuf.

“I’m guessing this lad is your son,” Balgruuf said, studying Cirroc.

“Don’t worry, I’m sane and possess common sense,” Cirroc told him. “That’s why I’m a Sword-Saint.”

“Redguard version of a Greybeard, except he can summon a spirit sword instead of Shout at people,” Rustem explained. “So, what are you going to do? My offer to the Stormcloaks only extends to lending them a hand, not winning their fights for them, so I won’t be taking up arms against you.”

“What choice do I have? By making you Thane, I declared myself against Tullius from the start.” Balgruuf’s expression was grim. “Deliver my axe to Ulfric. He will know what it means.”

“So Balgruuf’s chosen a side?” Ulfric asked two days later on delivery of the axe.

“Obviously,” Rustem confirmed.

“You told him I need not be High King of Skyrim,” Ulfric rumbled dangerously.

“No offence, Ulfric, speaking as an arsehole ill-suited to rulership I’m inclined to agree with him,” Rustem told the Jarl bluntly. “Bjarni and Egil are more suited to ruling a cosmopolitan kingdom than you are. If you were to throw out every non-Nord in Skyrim, you’d crash your economy in the year and have the Empire back here within five.”

“What would you know?” Ulfric retorted, his Thu’um making the Palace quake for a moment.

“Because we both know I’m one of the last descendants of your precious Talos,” Rustem answered calmly. “Julius Martin might have been able to hold his father’s throne but from Arius down, none of us are suited to rulership… or even desirous of it. Hawk had the will, the power and the proof to back up her claim, but she chose to serve Kynareth instead. Cirroc is a sworn priest of the Redguard gods, who have vowed never to allow Imperial dominion over Hammerfell again. Irkand has no kids I know of.”

“If you weren’t the Dragonborn, I’d have your head for your insolence.”

“If giving you a serving of truth is insolence, Ulfric, you’ve been listening to Sigdrifa for too long.” Rustem met Ulfric’s bottle-green gaze squarely. “If Julius Martin and Arius hadn’t been so damn certain that their claim to the Ruby Throne was more important than stability, the Aldmeri Dominion could have been stopped in its infancy by the Aurelii throwing their weight behind a more suitable candidate. I’m telling you, here and now, that a lot of moderates like Balgruuf would prefer a more cosmopolitan candidate to become the High King of a free Skyrim. What’s more important – your ego or your cause?”

“If you weren’t the Dragonborn,” Ulfric began heatedly.

“I’d have been stabbed a long time ago, to quote Egil,” Rustem finished dryly. “Maybe I’m the Dragonborn because I realised long ago it wasn’t about my ego but the fate of the world.”

He turned from Ulfric. “Either way, you better hustle your Stormcloaks to Whiterun if you don’t want to greet Jarl Olfrid Battle-Born. Tullius won’t piss around.”

…

It was strange how warm his blood felt against his stone-cold flesh.

Legate Quentin Cipius knelt helplessly before the knot of Nords and Redguards that approached him, surrounded by the corpses of his dead soldiers. “TIID” and “WUND” had been the words that spelled his doom, Rustem Aurelius moving from officer to officer in the Legion deployment with the speed of the wind while his hapless opponents had been slowed down to a crawl. That golden dwarven greatsword severing heads, limbs and even torsos with all the merciless efficiency of an automaton. They called his brother Irkand Arkay’s Blade but truly, it was Arius’ eldest son who was death incarnate.

“Poor bastard,” Rustem remarked with something resembling sympathy. Aside from his iron-grey hair, there was little to hint at the man being in his late fifties in the strong athletic body and relatively unlined features. Women still sighed over those bright blue eyes and too-cheerful smile, not seeing the empty hunger in his gaze. “At least he’s not a Nord.”

“Why is that?” Quentin demanded hoarsely.

“Because if you were a Nord, sending you honourably to Sovngarde would only serve Alduin an appetiser,” Rustem explained with deceptive pleasantry. “I have enough on my plate without empowering that big black bastard, thank you.”

“Damn you,” Quentin told him. “The Medes were right to try and destroy your wretched lineage. You’re a blight upon the Empire.”

“We would have made lousy Emperors,” Rustem agreed with a smile. “But I’m not sure the Medes were any better. Do you have any last words before I send your head to Tullius?”

“Va’funcula,” Quentin swore.

“’Fuck you’? You’re shit at dying, you know that? I was expecting some pithy remark about my Daedric connections, an elaborate curse upon my bloodline or even a heart-stirring dying declaration of loyalty to the Empire. But all you give me is ‘fuck you’? I’ve heard better pre-mortem one-liners from drunks I assassinated in dark alleys for drinking money. ‘Fuck you’. As if I’d stick my dick in some Colovian whose lips are glued to Mede’s arse! I have some standards, you know.”

“Knowing where you’ve been, I doubt that greatly,” remarked the iron-haired woman in elaborate bear-carved armour.

“Given that ‘where I’ve been’ includes you, Sigdrifa, do you really want to go there?” Rustem asked in some annoyance, earning a stifled snigger from the bearskin-clad barbarian next to him as the armoured woman reddened.

_I’m going to die at the hands of emotional adolescents,_ Quentin lamented as the greatsword rose and fell. _Stendarr have mercy on the Emp-_


	9. Keeping Vows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of adultery.

“Listener,” greeted Nazir as Rustem and Cirroc entered Morthal. “Astrid was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten about us. Good thing I had a job here, isn’t it?”

“Astrid has nothing to bitch about,” Rustem answered with a roll of his eyes. “I did her precious Stormcloaks a couple favours… and am in the process of fulfilling a contract that will be legendary, even by our standards.”

“So you _are_ Dragonborn then? Well, I won’t complain.” Nazir’s sharp brown eyes settled on Cirroc. “This your son?”

“He is.” Rustem folded his arms. “What does Astrid want? I’m a little busy with the Alduin contract at the moment.”

“She went to Volunruud after you relayed that message from the Night Mother,” Nazir said in a low voice. “Armand Motierre has hired us to kill Titus Mede.”

Rustem smiled beatifically. “Well, well, my day just got a lot better.”

“I rather thought it would please you,” Nazir observed. “So… it’s an actual contract on Alduin?”

“Signed and sealed with the Night Mother herself,” Rustem confirmed. “She did drop hints the Mede job was coming, though.”

“When you can, you better drop into the Sanctuary before Astrid decides you’ve turned against us,” Nazir warned. “She doesn’t really approve of long leaves of absence.”

“Tell Astrid that she isn’t the final authority in the Brotherhood – I am,” Rustem told him bluntly. “If I don’t stop Alduin, it’s the _end of the world_. Fuck Astrid and fuck her ego.”

“I’ll find a more tactful way to put that,” Nazir said soberly. “Can we count on your assistance in the Mede job?”

“Of course. I’m sure I can find a way to mix some pleasure with my business. You know me.” Rustem smiled brightly. “But Tullius knows I’m in Skyrim, he knows I’m the Listener and he knows I’d love to kill Mede. Better save me for the more, ah, blatant parts of the job.”

“Will do.” Nazir glanced at Cirroc. “Thinking of walking in your father’s footsteps?”

“No,” Cirroc said candidly. “I have better things to do.”

“Arrogant little shit, isn’t he?”

“He gets it from me,” Rustem admitted mildly. “None of the Aurelii believe in false humility.”

…

Hawk was at Riverwood, horn in hand, her expression one of thunder and fury as she thrust it into Rustem’s hands. “Delphine is well and truly chastened,” she said in that low contralto of hers. “I think you’ll find her willing to obey her oaths for a change.”

“Stealing the horn to force contact. That’s Delphine all over,” Rustem observed with a sigh. “Did you know it?”

“I did. Esbern was Fourth Blade, remember, and I know what he knew.” Hawk sighed herself. “Worry about Alduin. I’ll keep enemies off your back.”

“Take care of yourself,” Rustem told her. “I don’t want to have to mourn you.”

Hawk’s smile was wry. “I’ll be fine.”

Delphine was, as Hawk said, well and truly chastened. “If only we’d known you were Dragonborn years ago,” she said as Rustem entered the inn. “There’s a lot we could have done together.”

“Still a lot we can do,” Rustem said soberly, feeling a pang of what had been. Even he could see the bitterness and grief that festered in Delphine’s heart… but there wasn’t much he could do about. “If you don’t mind working with the Brotherhood.”

“The Blades are dead,” Delphine said bitterly. “What else do I have but vengeance?”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself and live up to your oaths,” Cirroc told her flatly. “For once.”

Delphine scowled at the boy. “What would you know?”

“Not to commit adultery,” Cirroc retorted.

“I just heard from your sister,” Delphine said flatly. “I don’t need a sermon from another self-righteous little shit.”

Delphine might be chastened, but she hadn’t changed much. “My kids are smarter than we ever were,” Rustem said softly. “Thank the gods.”

“Whatever.” Delphine rounded the table. “We need to find out why the dragons have returned – and I think the Thalmor are involved somehow.”

“The dragons have returned because the last sign of the Prophecy of the Dragonborn was fulfilled,” Rustem reminded her. “Did you ever listen to Esbern and the other loremasters? The Thalmor might have set it up somehow but even they can’t control dragons. No one can.”

“How do you know that for certain?”

“Because Hawk pretty much knows everything the Greybeards and the Blades knew about dragons, plus whatever Kyne has told her,” Cirroc told Delphine. “The Thalmor are probably a false trail.”

Delphine swore in Bretonic and Rustem had to laugh. She was just like Sigdrifa, which showed he was probably a glutton for punishment when younger.

“I’m sure we’ll get the chance to kill some Thalmor,” he assured her. “But the dragons – and the chance to kill Mede – are more important at the moment.”

“We’re killing Mede? Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Delphine’s ability to about-face was impressive.

“I just did.”


	10. A Blade Betrayed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

It was the chiming of Restoration magic that woke Irkand up.

For a moment, he was flung back thirty years to Cloud Ruler Temple when he saw the dark-haired, square-jawed face looking down at him, aqua-green eyes narrowed in concentration. Then the features, more rugged than austere, and the odd streak of brown in sable hair instead of black, and a near-replica of that face and hair and eyes standing taller than even the masculine version of Sigdrifa reminded him she’d gone on to have two sons.

“You damn near died, priest,” remarked the taller of the two, his voice a rumbling basso. “If Egil hadn’t been riding patrol, you’d be explaining to Arkay why you arrived in Aetherius with an escort of Legionaries.”

Irkand sat up slowly, assisted by the one who’d healed him – Egil, the Stormsword’s younger son. “They attacked me…” He trailed off, still shocked. Hadn’t he proven his loyalty to the Empire after the Battle of the Red Ring?

“Bjarni, this is Rustem’s brother,” Egil said in a deep baritone. “The Knight of the Circle who used to be an assassin.”

“Ironic the warrior became the Listener and the assassin became a priest,” observed Bjarni. “I see that arse-kissing of the Empire worked out well for you.”

“They attacked him because they know Father’s the Dragonborn, someone’s going to kill Titus Mede and therefore Irkand might be considered to have divided allegiances,” said a woman’s low, pleasant contralto. “Pity for his sake Legate Skulnar didn’t consider the fact that Uncle Irkand lacks the imagination to have divided allegiances.”

Irkand realised that seated beside the bed was a compact black-haired woman of indeterminate age whose face was barbarically tattooed in the Forsworn style in such a manner as to seem like a hawk or a dragon mask. _“Callaina?”_ he blurted.

“Hawk,” she corrected. “High Priestess of Kyne and the one trying to prevent this shitshow from going apocalyptic.”

Bjarni gave a short ugly laugh. “That’s a terrible thing to say about your father.”

“I’m including Father, Mother, your father and Delphine in that little statement,” ‘Hawk’ observed sardonically. “Galmar is probably the only sensible one of the lot of them.”

“You look like a Forsworn!” Irkand rasped.

“Probably because I got much of my post-Greybeards training from them,” Hawk said serenely. “Granma Catriona was only too happy to see one of her blood return to the hills.”

She rose to her feet. “Your political associations are your own but remember, the Legion turned on you despite years of loyalty, my father’s the Last Dragonborn, and you’re alive because of my half-brother Egil. Consider that in the choices to come.”

“The other Jarls may not need to consider a Skyrim run by my father,” Bjarni said soberly. “His heart just might give out at the shock of finding out we’re related to a Hagraven.”

“Don’t tell Granma that. She’d help it along. I don’t think you two truly understand just how _justified_ the hatred of the Stormcloaks is in the Reach.” Hawk’s smile was wintry. “I suggest you learn very, very quickly. Even my aegis can only protect you from so much.”

“Protection?” Egil asked in disbelief.

“Cousin Kaie hasn’t raided down from Lost Valley yet,” Hawk told him. “You might want to consider sending her a kinship gift if Bjarni doesn’t want to be treated as just another lowlander.”

“Can’t you stay?” Bjarni asked.

“No. Elenwen’s meddling, Thorald’s at Northwatch Keep and I need to keep the blackcoats out of it.” Hawk’s smile softened. “Irkand’s not a bad man, despite your parents might say. He’s just used to following orders and preferring order over thinking for himself. Keep that in mind, please.”

“We shall,” Egil promised.

Hawk pulled the blanket a little higher on a stunned Irkand. “When this is over, I’ll point you in the direction of somewhere you can do some good,” she told him gently. “But you better stay out of this fight. It isn’t yours.”

“The Dawnguard?” Egil asked cryptically. “Isran’s already recruiting.”

“Given my uncle and Isran had a very _interesting_ breakup, I was thinking more of sending him to his old friend Skjor in Jorrvaskr,” Hawk answered dryly. “I think we should save the fireworks for Castle Volkihar, not Fort Dawnguard, don’t you think?”

Then she transformed into a Jeralls hawk with a band of turquoise feathers on her tail and wings before flying outside into the darkness.

“You fucked Isran?” Egil asked Irkand in disbelief. “I thought the only thing he cared about was his mission?”

“We have that in common,” Irkand rasped with a wince, accepting the mug of mead Bjarni handed him. “Is Rustem truly the Dragonborn?”

“Akatosh figured he’d be the best option because Hawk’s too powerful and beyond killing Titus Mede, Rustem really doesn’t have any ambitions,” Bjarni answered. “One Talos was enough, I think.”

Irkand swallowed some mead, tasting medicinal herbs in it. “Your mother might disown you for that.”

“She’s not that bad,” Egil said defensively.

“Only because she realises that there’s two Tongues with every reason to kick her arse, little brother,” Bjarni told him with a sigh. “Even Mother knows there are some fights not worth picking.”

He glanced at Irkand. “You can stay with Runil until you’re healed. There’s some vampires, necromancers and other dark beasties you can kill for us while you make up your mind. I don’t recommend returning to Cyrodiil. Mede’s coming here and the Brotherhood will get him. The Elder Council will kill you. Even I know that.”

“I’ve been loyal,” Irkand whispered. “The Empire…”

“Is going the way of Atmora. Dead and done,” Bjarni said dismissively. “Try thinking for yourself. I hear it’s quite liberating.”

“Thank Stendarr he’s Falkreath’s problem now,” Egil muttered after Bjarni left, earning a startled laugh from Irkand.

Sigdrifa’s younger son added a couple more pillows to the bed. “I don’t know how you managed to butcher fifteen Legionaries, but you allowed us to secure Falkreath’s borders. That has earned you some mercy and hospitality. Please don’t abuse it.”

He rose to his feet. “Rest. Tomorrow, we can talk some more.”

And he left Irkand to wrestle with the fact that the Empire had betrayed the last Blade loyal to it.


	11. Abandonment Issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and discussions about familial abandonment, adultery and incompatible mixed-orientation marriage. Rustem is aromantic and Cirroc is aromantic/asexual to give context to the conversation.

“Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok.”

The force of the Greybeards’ Voices should have pulverised Rustem where he stood but all it did was make him stagger. Cirroc was beginning to get a keen idea of what being Dragonborn entailed… and just how mighty Sura-HoonDing had been to defy and even defeat Talos, the greatest of them all, in single combat.

“Dovahkiin. You have tasted the Voice of the Greybeards, and passed through unscathed. High Hrothgar is open to you,” announced Master Arngeir when it was done. “We will gift to you the final Word of Unrelenting Force.”

_If only I could learn sword-fighting the way he learns Shouts,_ Cirroc thought wistfully as his father absorbed the Word and understanding.

**_“Would the knowledge be as appreciated?”_** A’Tor asked, speaking as he rarely did to the Spirit Sword’s bearers. **_“Your father seems to treat his power a little too lightly for my liking.”_**

 _Are you asking that as a Prince or a Crown?_ Cirroc asked in return.

**_“Both.”_** A’Tor hummed thoughtfully in the back of Cirroc’s mind. **_“The Thu’um always was a dangerous power. These Greybeards might have the right of it in keeping it away from the laity. Look at that Ulfric.”_**

 _I know, but if Alduin wins, he’ll eat Hammerfell too,_ Cirroc pointed out.

**_“Just be wary. I don’t trust Ulfric or Sigdrifa.”_**

**** _Noted._

“So when can I meet Paarthurnax?” Rustem asked as he pushed his braids back.

“When your Voice can open the path, you will know you are ready to speak to him,” Arngeir said severely.

“I damned well know he’s a dragon,” Rustem told the priest testily. “I’m not going to kill him. If he can sit down on a mountain for three or four thousand years, I think he’s good.”

“You are not ready,” Arngeir insisted.

“Fine! What do I do now? Alduin’s still flying around raising dragons and now I have a mission to complete on top of that.” Rustem folded his arms. “You weren’t at Helgen. I want that wyrm in the ground as soon as is possible.”

“You learn more Rotmulaag – Words of Power,” Arngeir told him. “We are sworn to peace on this mountain. We can’t help you in the fight.”

“Hawk will have an idea,” Cirroc assured his father. “She has the Blades and Greybeard lore, remember?”

Arngeir’s expression was downright vinegary. “The Blades know nothing of what must be done.”

“Hawk isn’t a Blade,” Cirroc pointed out. “Believe me, she chewed out the last Blade for attempting to meddle in things.”

Wulfgar snorted in amusement and made a gesture with his hand. Arngeir’s eyes narrowed and he snapped something in Dragonish to the other Greybeard, who responded with a… well, Cirroc supposed that even monastic hermits weren’t above giving the finger to their colleagues.

“Alduin’s Wall,” Rustem said slowly. “Of course! Esbern said that held all the dragonlore the Akaviri knew.”

“The Blades were arrogant and brought their demise upon themselves!” Arngeir told him frostily.

Rustem’s expression went blank and Cirroc stepped back. His father didn’t have many scruples but to insult the memory of the Blades was a very good way to get someone killed.

“If you weren’t a holy man, _Julius fucking Martin_ , I’d pike your damn head for that,” he said in a low deadly tone. “If you weren’t my grandfather, I’d make it long and slow. If the Blades lost their way, it was because you abandoned them to live on a fucking mountain.”

He turned to Cirroc. “We’re leaving before I do something drastic.”

Outside, his swearing was… well, Cirroc supposed everyone in Skyrim knew the Dragonborn was pissed off. By the time they reached the third Wayshrine, he’d cooled down enough to speak in a tight angry voice.

“I just put two and two together,” Rustem explained. “Julius Martin thought he was the Last Dragonborn, so when his wife was murdered by the Thalmor, he went to High Hrothgar and never came back. Now we know why.”

“I think the Blades were used to following orders blindly,” Cirroc said after a moment’s pause. “If the leaders had been better or they had more backbone…”

“We were planning to overthrow my father at the end of the Great War,” Rustem admitted. “I was going to divorce Sigdrifa, marry Delphine and let her do the work. But I was assigned to Hammerfell and I realised that I was home. You never knew your grandma, Cirroc. She taught me a lot of Redguard lore, more than Arius realised. But she died just after Irkand’s birth and…”

“Grandpa told me plenty about her,” Cirroc told him.

“She was able to rein in Arius before he did too much damage – Katariah to his Pelagius, I suppose.” Rustem sighed. “Julius Martin left us. Martin Septim’s son abandoned his own family. How do you forgive that, Cirroc?”

“I don’t know,” Cirroc said soberly. “But you never abandoned me. When I wanted to be a Sword-Saint, you backed me a hundred percent. When I said I didn’t want to marry some girl, you talked Mother around to agreeing with my choice-“

“I was married to Sigdrifa, who I think is a lot like you,” Rustem interrupted with another sigh. “She didn’t want to be there. How could I do that to my own son when he’s not interested in women?”

“Or men or anything else,” Cirroc agreed. “It makes life simpler, believe me.”

“I’ve never been in love myself,” Rustem admitted. “I think it confuses matters.”

He shook his head. “I fucked up a lot and I did a lot of wrong.”

“You did,” Cirroc agreed. “I may disagree with Sigdrifa’s methods but I can understand her sentiment. You cheating on her with Delphine was disrespectful.”

“It was,” Rustem said soberly. “Should I go to Windhelm and apologise?”

“Make sure she’s sitting down first. If she faints again, she might hurt herself.”


	12. Family Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, war crimes, genocide and imprisonment.

“Cicero thought the Listener had abandoned him and Mother,” lamented the little red-haired Cyrod.

“Never,” Rustem told him. Astrid had gone up personally with Arnbjorn to handle the Vittoria Vicci and Gaius Maro Jr jobs, telling Nazir that she wanted to be away from Cicero before she stabbed him. “The Night Mother made a deal with Akatosh to see Alduin and his dragons dead. I’ve been working on that contract.”

“Dragons? Cicero has never slain a dragon,” pouted the jester.

“That’s why I came here. Astrid and you are irritating each other and since I need to go into the Reach, I need an extra blade,” Rustem answered. “I don’t know if Hawk can persuade the Forsworn not to stab me.”

Veezara, listening to the conversation, shuddered. “That woman is terrifying.”

“Being practically an Avatar of Kyne will do that, I suppose,” Rustem agreed. “She’s more like Great-Grandpa Martin than anyone else, I think.”

Babette chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. “The Forsworn worship Daedra. We used to get on pretty well with them. If we can get the proper credentials from Glenmoril Coven, the Forsworn will let us pass if we don’t provoke them.”

“But Rustem’s helped the Stormcloaks,” argued Veezara.

“That’s politics,” Rustem pointed out.

**_“There may be a path,”_** whispered the Night Mother. **_“In Cidhna Mine, a child has called upon his Mother. Go speak to Madanach and you may achieve your goal with a minimum of violence.”_**

Rustem relayed what she just told him and Veezara whistled through his teeth. “Well then. You have your opening.”

“Tell Astrid and Arnbjorn I have no intention of undermining her authority in Falkreath Sanctuary,” the Listener said after a moment’s thought. “I’m going to send Cicero and the Night Mother back to Dawnstar with… well, I’ll need someone to go with him. Stop in Whiterun and tell Jenassa that Rustem has more work for her. That will put the Dawnstar Sanctuary’s strength at three until we can recruit some more. Ingun Black-Briar has some promise, I’ve observed.”

“I’ll go,” offered Gabrielle. “I can think of a couple Dunmer in the Grey Quarter who despise the Reclamations.”

“Thanks.” Rustem pursed his lips. “After Maro’s death, let the situation simmer a little. I don’t want Mede getting cold feet and refusing to come. Breaking into the White-Gold Tower’s a bitch.”

“We know what we’re doing,” Babette said crossly.

“Speaking of inconvenience, your brother inadvertently helped the Stormcloak cause by butchering what was left of Falkreath’s Legionaries when they turned on him,” reported Nazir as he entered the dining room. “Bjarni’s given him sanctuary for the moment. Do you want us to kill him?”

“Tempting, but no. He’ll be so shocked at the betrayal that he won’t be able to act until it’s too late,” Rustem said after a moment. “Keep an eye on him just in case though.”

“Will do.” Nazir poured himself some wine. “Hawk was last seen flying north and it seems Jarl Bjarni’s meeting with Kaie of Lost Valley in the next few days.”

Rustem smiled. “I think I might just crash the party. I need to get to Markarth anyway.”

The two were meeting where the borders of Falkreath, the Reach and Orsinium met at Bilgegulch Mine… and it seemed that Tarlak gro-Mashog had invited himself along as the King of Orsinium. Rustem gave his Orcish cousin’s hand a firm shake with a grin, smiled winningly at an unimpressed Kaie, and congratulated Bjarni on his accession to the Stag Throne because Falkreath finally had an excellent ruler. Cirroc had stayed in Falkreath-town, eschewing the Sanctuary’s hospitality, but had joined him at this meeting.

“I won’t mince words,” Tarlak said as they gathered around the fire. “If the Stormcloaks want us to recognise them, they need to recognise us as free nations. I agree that the Empire is done for… but we don’t need or want Nord overlords replacing them.”

“What my father did in Markarth was wrong,” Bjarni agreed soberly. “How do you want me to pay wergild to the both of you?”

“The Forsworn want bloodgeld, not wergild,” Kaie said grimly. “We will get it ourselves. I want an agreement from you that you won’t seek vengeance for it.”

“You’re asking a Nord to not avenge his parents,” Bjarni pointed out.

“What happened in the Reach can’t be paid for by gold, Bjarni. Your mother in particular is a traitor to her own mother’s people.” Kaie’s expression softened just a little. “I know this must be hard. But think of all the Reacher orphans taken from their parents. Surely you must know one or two.”

“Muiri,” Bjarni said with a sigh. “I…”

“I’m guessing it isn’t possible to just send a champion to Windhelm and have them challenge Ulfric or Sigdrifa,” Cirroc observed.

“They’d be cut down at the gates,” Bjarni said with a grimace.

“Maybe not.” Cirroc’s expression was thoughtful. “Sigdrifa appears to be the main offender here. She sent assassins to kill my parents as to conceal her first marriage. My mother returned the assassin’s head in a tasteful box-“

“That’s Safiya for you!” Tarlak interrupted with a laugh.

“-But aside from the Dark Brotherhood and the Children of Satakal spending a decade or so trying to kill each other, nothing was ever really done about it,” Cirroc finished. “Bjarni, I have nothing but respect for you and the Stormcloaks. I even agree that my father drove your mother beyond endurance by his insulting of her with his public adultery. But since a Reach or Orcish champion wouldn’t be able to demand trial by combat in Windhelm, someone needs to stand for them. I’m a Sword-Saint. That sort of thing is my job.”

“You’re asking me to let you go to Windhelm and kill my mother?” Bjarni asked in disbelief.

“I intend to duel her fairly in… what do you Nords call it? The holmgang,” Cirroc told him sombrely. “I will try for a disabling blow instead of a fatal one. But for Hawk and my mother and the kin she betrayed, someone needs to call her to account. I trust your father’s honour enough to allow me to leave if I win. There is no pleasure in this, believe me. But I am a Sword-Saint. It is my duty to avenge the wrongs done to Hammerfell and my kin. If you want a free Skyrim to be recognised, that means being held accountable for the nation’s sins.”

Even Rustem was shocked. “She’s a Shieldmaiden! She won’t be bound by the same rules as you are, because they can do anything necessary to win a battle!”

“A Sword-Saint may respond in kind if their opponent is so dishonourable,” Cirroc answered calmly. “Well, Bjarni?”

Bjarni’s expression was sick and Rustem felt for the young man. “By Nord honour, if the battle is fair and open…”

“Why not just hire an assassin and pay her in kind?” Kaie asked bluntly.

“Because you’d just continue the same sorry cycle,” Cirroc told her. “Bjarni would be forced to avenge his mother and on it goes. We Forebears and Crowns had the same issue in Hammerfell for eons.”

“I hadn’t considered it like that,” Kaie said thoughtfully. “I prefer results over glory. If Cirroc kills her, we will consider the sentence passed.”

“And if not?”

“Then we’ll carry out the sentence ourselves if she’s so stupid as to enter our lands,” Kaie answered coolly. “Catriona may have been too sentimental to kill her own daughter in Madanach’s throne room, but the rest of Lost Valley Clan isn’t so squeamish.”

“Works for me,” Tarlak said cheerfully.

“If it is done fairly and openly according to Nord law, I will not argue with the result,” Bjarni said after a long moment, his expression twisted with grief and pain. “Neither will Egil, so long as it is just and merciful.”

“You are a true Chief,” Tarlak told him gruffly.

“There may be some hope for you Nords yet,” Kaie observed.

“Cirroc, why?” Rustem demanded after the meeting broke up.

His son gave him an opaque look. “I told you why.”

“No, you gave the others a palatable explanation. Tell me the truth!”

“Sigdrifa is the worst reason for supporting a free Skyrim, Grandfather Beroc told me,” he answered with a sigh. “She’s the reason why Sura-Mai dragged his feet. The honourable reasons are all valid, but frankly, that woman needs to die because she’s an expansionist Talosite who has broken every agreement she’s ever made and thinks she’s morally justified in doing so.”

Rustem couldn’t fault his explanation. “She’s got more experience than you in combat-“

“That woman’s spent the past twenty or so years commanding behind a desk and has become quite sloppy in her combat skills,” Cirroc interrupted calmly. “Father, I’m not lying when I say I am one of the greatest duelists in Hammerfell. The chance of me dying is actually fairly low.”

“You’re insane,” Rustem said softly.

Cirroc’s smile was wry. “Well, I am of the Aurelii.”


	13. The Last Septim and the Last Shieldmaiden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for violence, fantastic racism and mentions of death, imprisonment, war crimes, genocide, child abandonment, child abuse and religious conflict. Cirroc and Sigdrifa are essentially mirror images of each other as autistic asexual/aromantic warrior-priests; the former is what happens when you love a neurodivergent kid and let them train their hyperfixation to its ultimate conclusion and support them all the way while the latter is what happens when you send a neurodivergent kid to be raised into a child soldier and religious zealot with no regards for their own autonomy, then wonder why they turn out to be what they are. Definitely a case of nurture over nature. Also, since Cirroc fights with a lightsabre, his style is very Jediesque… because I can.

There was no point in wasting time, so Cirroc travelled to Windhelm by carriage with only enough coin to cover a few nights at the inn and the trip back to Whiterun. He was unsurprised to be met at the gates of the city by a hefty Nord in bearskins who looked vaguely familiar. One of Ulfric’s senior commanders, he supposed. Bjarni probably sent a pigeon to warn his family. That was his right.

“I don’t suppose you’d accept wergild for your family?” he asked politely.

“I might, but the Reachers and the Orcs won’t,” Cirroc told him with a sigh. “You know the Stormsword was half-Reachman and there’s a bit of Orcish in my own family, right? If it isn’t me, it’ll be a Forsworn executioner, and they soul-trap those they deem kinslayers. I intend to fight to disablement if possible. At the very worst, she’ll go to Sovngarde.”

The Nord stared at him. “Who gives a fuck about the Forsworn and the Orcs?”

“There’s half your problem. You seem to think Nords are the only ones who count in the world.” Cirroc met the man’s eyes. “Redguards have their honour too. I was very nearly not born because of Sigdrifa sending an assassin to poison my mother’s household. The Forsworn have agreed to cease raiding Falkreath and Hammerfell if one of the architects of the Markarth Incident is brought to justice. Orsinium will recognise an independent Skyrim. I’m a Sword-Saint. This is part of my job. I’m showing respect for the Stormcloaks by agreeing to participate in the holmgang.”

“First your father says Ulfric would be a bad High King and now you come to kill the Stormsword,” the man said with a troubled expression.

“I’ll tell you now Sigdrifa is the biggest impediment to Hammerfell’s acknowledgment of the Stormcloak right to the High King’s throne,” Cirroc told him candidly. “Sura-Mai, my kinsman, holds a bit of a grudge against one who tried to poison his family.”

The commander grimaced. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I can promise you’ll leave Windhelm safely no matter the outcome. Egil gave the order.”

Well, given that Egil worshipped the Divine of Justice and Mercy, that went without saying. No matter what Ulfric might think, his son’s word would prevail.

**_“Unless you die,”_** A’Tor said wryly.

_Then northern Tamriel will implode and the Dominion will invade. Failure isn’t an option._

Cirroc was escorted into the Palace of the Kings, where Ulfric slouched on the Throne of Ysgramor and Sigdrifa gave him a glare that burned like sea-ice in its hateful hostility. “We welcome you as comrades in arms despite your father’s offences to my wife and this is how you would repay us?” the Jarl of Windhelm rumbled, the edge of the Thu’um quaking the hall subtly.

But Cirroc had come forearmed and forewarned. Rustem, through his Guild contacts and Dark Brotherhood siblings, had some _very_ interesting information concerning the fall of Cloud Ruler Temple and the Falkreath part in it. “I come openly to challenge your wife to holmgang for her own offences against kith and kin, Jarl Ulfric, which is a great deal more honour than _she_ showed in sending an assassin to kill my mother and her household… or Dengeir showed in alerting Forts Pale Pass and Neugrad to the Blades’ plan to seize the Pale Pass during Arius’ rebellion.”

He pulled out the relevant letter, which glittered with Falkreath’s seal, and proffered it to the nearest person – Egil, it seemed, whose expression was thundery. The young prince read through it slowly, his face blanching, and then he handed it over to Ulfric.

“I thought you were challenging Sigdrifa for the Forsworn and the Orcs?” Galmar Stone-Fist growled.

“Whatever it takes to get her into the battle-circle,” Cirroc admitted. “I’m doing this because I respect the Nords and their desire to be free. I understand that pragmatism has its place in warfare and the building of a new nation. But from Balgeir the Bloody to Siddgeir, the Jarls of Falkreath have broken their oaths as Jarls, kinsmen and Nords. Sigdrifa’s living what she learned. But that doesn’t mean she can’t be held to account for her actions.”

“And you think you can defeat a veteran Shieldmaiden in a duel?” Sigdrifa asked harshly. “Did your father put you up to this? Is Rustem too cowardly to fight his own battles?”

“My father told me I was an idiot for pursuing this,” Cirroc said ruefully. “But given the other option is a Forsworn assassin who will soul trap you as a kinslayer, disablement or a glorious end that leads to Sovngarde is the better option, right?”

“Kinslayer?” Sigdrifa demanded. “Since when did I slay kin?”

“Your mother Catriona of Lost Valley is the cousin to Madanach, the King in Rags,” Cirroc announced to a court silent with shock. “You wilfully participated in the dispossession and massacre of the Reachfolk during the Stormcloak invasion of the Reach. Your father betrayed his marriage kin to the Empire. You decided to conceal your first marriage by abandoning your daughter and attempting to assassinate her in later years, then making a deal with Astrid to poison the entire household of a foreign noble. Sura-Mai would have declared war for that if he hadn’t been finishing the Dominion off.”

He looked at each of the Jarl’s court gathered by the Throne of Ysgramor steadily. “My own paternal grandfather was a traitor, a kin-harmer and a madman. My father’s an adulterer and an assassin and my uncle kills things for Arkay because he lacks the imagination to think for himself. Aurelia Northstar’s shortcomings are fairly well known to anyone with a familiarity with recent history. As heirs to Tiber Septim go… well, there have been better ones. Myself and Hawk, for instance.”

Cirroc took a deep breath and released it slowly. “It has to be me. Let the last heir of Tiber Septim, the man who became the god you profess to worship, chastise the last Shieldmaiden of Talos. Bring the Sword of the Septims. I will do my best not to kill Sigdrifa… but if she chooses to act as a Shieldmaiden, then a Sword-Saint may respond in kind.”

The silence practically screamed in the wake of his words. Ulfric’s court was stunned speechless as the letter was passed around from official to official. The Jarl himself was the last to read it, the muscles in his square jaw working in anger. Cirroc couldn’t fault him. He’d put Ulfric in a bad position.

But it needed to be done. Sigdrifa had to be contained… and Ulfric learn that actions always had consequences.

“If Sigdrifa had done this to Nords, it would be the sea-death for her,” his Steward Jorleif remarked at last.

“So you’re saying that non-Nords aren’t entitled to the same honour as Nords?” Cirroc asked mildly. “That will lose Skyrim a lot of potential allies and boost the Empire’s chances considerably.”

Egil’s expression was as sick as Bjarni’s had been. “The duel would be the more merciful option.”

“I want the cycle to end,” Cirroc said firmly. “Let trial by combat decide this. Both Nords and Redguards have that tradition.”

“It would hardly be a fair combat when you’re thirty years younger than Sigdrifa and are a warrior-monk who can summon a sword that can cut through ebony like butter,” Ulfric rumbled.

“That’s why I offered to fight with the Sword of the Septims. It isn’t the sacred sword I carry and it isn’t the Soul Sword. I’m actually not as familiar with Akaviri style weapons… and this one is broken into the bargain.”

“Why are we even discussing this?” Sigdrifa asked flatly. “I did what I had to for Talos. My father acted to avenge the insults done to me by my marriage-kin. The Forsworn and Orcs are Daedra worshippers illegally occupying Nord land and I consider neither kin. Rustem killed my uncle Balgeir in Elinhir and while my response was a little excessive, was I supposed to just let that go? I had every reason to believe Callaina was dead and any wrong I did her was annulled when she threatened to desecrate Talosite shrines because I was showing the heathens the right way to worship. I say we throw the boy out on his ear and send him home with the knowledge I could have easily killed him for his insolence. I can see he thinks he’s acting in honour and doing the right thing. I’m not a complete bitch, you know.”

Cirroc met the Stormsword’s ice-cold gaze as he pulled out some more paperwork. “You and Astrid really ought to avoid putting things in writing, Sigdrifa. It’s always embarrassing when the letters come out.”

“What letters?” she asked scornfully. “Rustem hates the both of us. He’s primed you as a weapon, boy, because he’s too cowardly to try and kill me himself.”

“For the very few who don’t know who I am, my name is Cirroc ibn Rustem al-Elinhir, First-Rank Ansei of the Saints of the Sword of Hammerfell, one of three in living memory who can call a sword forth from our souls, so tempered is our Ra Gada martial spirit. My father is Rustem Aurelius ibn Setareh al-Bruma, the current Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, great-grandson of Martin Septim and Aurelia Northstar.” Cirroc allowed himself a wry smile. “Don’t worry, we’re not interested in Imperial rule. None of us would make competent rulers.”

“We know who you are, boy,” grated Ulfric. “You’re wearing my limited patience very thin.”

“It’s no secret to any of us here that Sigdrifa was old schoolfriends with Astrid, the Speaker of Falkreath Sanctuary, from their days at Yngvild,” Cirroc continued as he leafed through the papers. “I was really hoping to avoid bringing this up but the Stormsword seems a bit too frightened to step into the battle-circle with a Redguard who even agreed to use a broken unfamiliar sword to make it a fairer fight. If honour won’t drive her, maybe shame will do the trick.”

“She’d need shame for that to work,” muttered the commander who’d met him at the gate to the general murmuring agreement of Ulfric’s guard.

“Are you calling me a coward?” Sigdrifa demanded.

“Coward. Kinslayer. Betrayer. Hypocrite. Have I missed anything?” Cirroc asked mildly. “Ah, here we go. Before anyone gets angry at me revealing Dark Brotherhood secrets, none of these were sanctioned by the Listener as they were never the result of the Black Sacrament – so it’s at the Listener’s discretion, not the Speaker’s, if these are fulfilled. They won’t be, hopefully. Better not irritate someone to the point of performing the Black Sacrament, eh?”

He handed the relevant document to Ulfric. “Have you two considered marriage counselling, by the way? I hear the Priests of Mara in Riften are really good at it.”

If one thing he’d learned from his mother and trailing around his father for the past month or so in Skyrim, it was that a sword could have many shapes, and paper could be a deadlier weapon than even his soul sword.

Ulfric read it, the colour draining from his face, then handed it to Galmar.

Sigdrifa, for the first time since Cirroc had entered the hall, looked sick.

“Why?” Ulfric asked her, his voice cracking with emotion.

“It was a contingency in case the Empire or Thalmor captured you,” Sigdrifa said, her gaze defiant. “It was to give you a clean death-“

Egil, who was most certainly not an idiot, began to retch in horror as the implications of Sigdrifa’s statement became stunningly clear. Cirroc felt slightly ashamed of himself for being so cavalier about it… and deeply sympathetic for the Nord warrior-priest.

Galmar handed the document to Jorleif, who then read it and handed it to the Stormcloak commander who’d met Cirroc at the gate.

“I wish it hadn’t come to this,” Cirroc told the white-faced Sigdrifa with a sigh. “You and I aren’t that different as people. The difference is my parents loved me enough to support me and yours essentially abandoned you to be made into a weapon for Talos. We’ve lived what we’ve learned and you deserved better. But for what you’ve done, there must be a reckoning, and the gods have given the task to me.”

“’What is more important – your ego or your cause’?” Ulfric whispered to himself in horror. “Wisdom from an assassin and his son.”

The Jarl of Windhelm rose to his feet and tore off the elaborate blue surcoat that covered his ebony-steel armour. “By my decree, Egil is now Jarl of Windhelm. The Dragonborn, he… Well. Perhaps the last of the Septims were right in chiding us, the last worshippers of Talos.”

“Father,” Egil began, only to be silenced by a glance from Ulfric.

“I will still fight for the cause. Galmar and I made oaths that can only be broken by death.” His bottle-green gaze was bitter. “For Sigdrifa…”

“By ancient Nord law, the punishment for her actions is the sea-death,” Jorleif said in a shaken voice. “Damnation in this world and the next.”

“No.” Ulfric’s voice was soft thunder in the hall. “Sigdrifa has ten minutes to reach the Temple of Talos and claim sanctuary there. I will not kill my wife or allow her to be executed, not when I can understand why she made those choices.”

“Even after knowing she had a contract on you, Galmar and her own fucking children?” Cirroc asked in disbelief. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

Egil’s face was twisted in anguish. “She has ten minutes. I-I…”

“Your honour might preclude dealing with her, but mine doesn’t,” Cirroc said grimly as he summoned his spirit sword, a weapon of misty white-gold light that chimed with heavenly bells. “The sword or the soul trap, Sigdrifa. Your Lost Valley kin are very, very angry with you and would love to see you damned for eternity. And frankly, for my own family, I can understand. You’re as bad as Arius.”

Sigdrifa suddenly bulled her way through the crowd, using the bulk of her totemic carved armour as a battering ram with the ease of one trained in wearing plate. But hardened by sand and wind, the warriors of Hammerfell relied more on their agility than the bulwark of steel, and supreme among them were the Sword-Saints to whom the blade was weapon and armour. He leaned back like a willow in a storm as her vambraced forearm just missed inflicting a blow that would have crushed his nose into his brain, then turned it into a backwards somersault that brought him to his feet. As the Nords gasped in shock and awe at his agility, he brought the soul sword down across Sigdrifa’s knees, hamstringing her from behind.

“I made a promise not to kill you if I could avoid it,” he said simply as Sigdrifa cried out in pain. “I intend to keep that promise.”

He banished the soul sword. “I hope someone will help you to the Temple. Time’s a-ticking.”

In the end, it was her auburn-haired huscarl Calder who carried her to the Temple, loyal to the end. Cirroc could respect that. Maybe it took longer than ten minutes to get there, but he wasn’t going to push the issue.

So it was the last heir of the Septims broke the last Shieldmaiden of the god he claimed descent from in the hall of Skyrim’s most ancient kings. As to whether it was honour or vengeance that drove his actions, historians would argue the reason for centuries to come. But all agreed that the feud between Falkreath’s Jarls and the Aurelii ended that day.


	14. Taking Responsibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, imprisonment, fantastic racism, police brutality, religious conflict and mentions of war crimes and genocide.

“Well, well. Look at you. The Nords have turned you into an animal. A wild beast caged up and left to go mad. So, my fellow beast, what do you want? Answers about the Forsworn? Revenge for trying to have you killed?”

Rustem nonchalantly took a seat on the bed and smiled pleasantly at Madanach. “I’m the Listener, my royal friend, and I’m here to answer the Black Sacrament. Your Mother heard your pleas and sent help.”

The King in Rags blanched. “Listener, forgive me, I-“

Rustem held up his hand. “I’d have probably killed a Silver-Blood to get inside anyway. Something’s rotten in the state of Markarth and while I’m politically sympathetic to the Stormcloaks’ desire to be free of the Empire, I’m also minded to hold some of their more egregious members to account. I’m disappointed about Eltrys, though, and hope you’ll arrange an appropriate wergild for his widow.”

“I’d heard you’d given them some assistance,” Madanach said grudgingly. “There’s several people I want dead, but the Silver-Bloods are at the top of the list. What’s the price?”

“Access to the Akaviri temple on Karthspire,” Rustem told him. “I’ve got two bigger contracts than yours on at the moment, and of them, the most important is the one Akatosh took out on Alduin. I need to see Alduin’s Wall so I can learn how to defeat him.”

“Dragons? I’d heard some rumours…” Madanach sighed. “I need you to start by killing Grisvar. He’s a snitch who feeds information to the Silver-Bloods. If it’s the end of the world, I might as well die fighting under the sky, not choking in a hole making Thongvor and Thonar richer.”

Thought was goad to the deed and soon enough, Madanach had gathered the Forsworn in the main cave, given them a rousing speech about death or freedom, and led everyone through a portion of Dwemer ruins to a door that promised escape. Kaie, who bore a marked resemblance to the King in Rags, was waiting there with suits of Forsworn armour, Rustem’s own gear… and Hawk. “My darling daughter, you are a sight for sore eyes,” Rustem said in relief. “Thalmor giving you any trouble?”

“No. I activated a Blades deep cover agent and found out you were wandering Markarth unsupervised. Cousin Kaie told me what was going on and I figured I’d better make sure you got out alive.”

“That son of yours is efficient, Listener,” Kaie said with a grin. “News reached us this morning that Sigdrifa is crippled and Ulfric disgraced. The Silver-Bloods are beside themselves.”

“I can bear their discomfort with enormous fortitude,” Rustem said cheerfully.

Madanach smiled grimly. “Good. Pity we can’t wipe out the whole family-“

“Bjarni has agreed to acknowledge the Reachfolk’s right to the Druadachs,” Kaie interrupted. “I don’t know if we can leave Skyrim altogether, Uncle Madanach, but we will be able to have a Reach-blooded Jarl and freedom of worship. Ulfric’s eldest son believes all peoples should have the rights the Stormcloaks are fighting for.”

“But his brother Egil’s a bloody Vigilant,” Madanach growled. “Alright, we’ll worry about the politics later. How crowded are the streets? I don’t mind cutting down guards or Silver-Bloods, but let’s not kill civilians.”

“It’s night. The Sybil of Dibella and the priestesses have cast Calm spells across the entire city,” Hawk reported. “I think they were glad to lend a hand to minimise casualties.”

Her gaze grew distant. “Cicero’s disabled the gate guards. He wasn’t pleased to discover you’d been imprisoned and the actions of the Silver-Bloods offend him on a personal level.”

“We’ll kill the Silver-Bloods on the way out,” Rustem decided. “That’s why Madanach performed the Black Sacrament.”

“Well, partly. My other requests were for Ulfric, Sigdrifa and Igmund,” Madanach said. “But I’ll settle for the Silver-Bloods and Igmund tonight.”

Hawk sighed. “Then I better have Argis and Nepos ready to move. Kaie, you good with them being interim Jarl and Steward?”

“Argis will placate the Stormcloaks long enough for us to consolidate ourselves and Nepos is a senior Forsworn agent, so I’m good,” Kaie said with a smile. “You should lend a hand more often, cousin.”

“I’ve been a little distracted with the Prophecy of the Dragonborn… and there’s only so much I can do as the Voice of Kyne,” Hawk said dryly. “Tell Siobhan of Hag’s End I’d appreciate it if Northwatch Keep had an unhappy accident and Thorald Grey-Mane was allowed to return home to Whiterun. The Blades deep cover agent will handle the Thalmor in here and I’ll deal with the Embassy myself.”

“Just a minute,” one of the other Forsworn demanded. “Why are we listening to some Redguard wench, daughter of the Listener or no?”

Hawk ran her hand over her features, revealing she’d concealed her tattoos from the guards. “Hawk mac Catriona of Lost Valley. I serve Kyne in the same way a Hag serves Hircine or Nocturnal but for the most part, I rarely intervene so directly. My ultimate job is to keep the Listener – the Dragonborn and my father – alive so he can defeat Alduin. Because I don’t look Forsworn, much like Argis and Bryn, I can serve a greater purpose in a subtler manner.”

“She’s a Hawksister,” Kaie added cryptically.

“Well, I’ll be damned. I thought the tradition and magics were lost,” Madanach observed.

“Bothela’s given us invisibility potions,” Kaie continued. “We kill Igmund and the Silver-Bloods, then run for the hills. Listener, we will provide a guide for you and Cicero to Sky Haven Temple.”

“That guide is me,” Hawk said with a smile. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” Madanach decreed.

It went as well as could be expected, only two Forsworn dying to the guards. Rustem let the first wave rush headlong to the gates before nipping around to the entrance of Understone Keep. He wasn’t as stealthy as Irkand but he knew enough to sneak into a bedroom and slit the Jarl’s throat. Maybe the Steward too just in case.

Someone beat him to it, wiping a golden elven dagger on the Jarl’s bedsheets. **_“Don’t attack him!”_** the Night Mother warned as Rustem drew his borrowed stone axe. **_“That’s the Blades agent!”_**

“Ondolemar,” Rustem whispered in disbelief.

“Marius,” corrected the bulky, shaven-headed Altmer. “I’ve made it look like the Thalmor killed Igmund, the local Legate and Raerek. I couldn’t bear to kill his huscarl – the affection she shares with Calcelmo will keep her alive and Argis won’t ask for her life.”

“Let’s muddy up the waters, cousin mine,” Rustem said with a grin. “Alas, the mighty Ondolemar fell to a Brotherhood assassin. Marius Aurelius shouldn’t miss out on the Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn.”

Marius smirked. “Alas indeed. It will be good to die as a Blade.”

Rustem didn’t ask where the body of the dead Altmer with the smashed face came from when Marius joined him at the entrance of Understone Keep. They crept out as the sound of battle came from the gates and ran smack into Thongvor Silver-Blood and a few of his mercenary goons. Unrelenting Force drove them off the steps to land with meaty thuds on the unforgiving stone below.

Madanach was ashen-faced when they descended the stairs. “That… shouting magic…”

“The Thu’um,” Rustem said softly. “It’s my innate gift as Dragonborn.”

“Ulfric used the Voice to break open the gates of Markarth,” Marius murmured to Rustem.

“That son of a bitch misused the Thu’um like that?” Rustem asked in disbelief. “Satakal’s balls, no wonder Hawk went up me like a fire when she thought I wasn’t taking it seriously enough.”

The King in Rags shuddered once and collected himself. “Let’s go. Once I leave Markarth, very few people in the Reach will be safe until we are free.”

“I’ll speak for the right of Reachfolk to rule themselves,” Rustem promised. “I’m the fucking Dragonborn, descended from their chief fucking god. Even the most rabid Stormcloak won’t argue with the man who is destined to kill Alduin World-Eater.”

He had the power. He had the right. If not him, then who?

As they left Markarth under a blood-red dawn, Rustem saw Hawk incline her head in acknowledgment… and for the first time in forever, he took responsibility for his legacy and that of his family. He may not have done those things, but he’d benefited from its legacy, and he had the power to acknowledge it and make reparations. The Reach would be as free as could be managed. Skyrim would be free. And the Empire would receive its final reckoning.


	15. Alduin's Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration, war crimes, genocide and religious conflict. Much of the Dark Brotherhood storyline will be in the background during Alduin’s Wall and the Throat of the World. Loads of Forsworn and Akaviri head-canon in this chapter.

Karthspire was the holiest mountain in the Druadachs and as such, had a sizeable Forsworn encampment at its base and even in the cavern that led to the entrance of Sky Haven Temple. That was what Hawk and Rustem had called the Akaviri temple atop its peak, a fortress containing the ancient dragonlore of the Dragonguard. Madanach eyed his cousin’s daughter and her father with… well, not warily, but trepidation. A Hawksister. No woman of the Reach had felt called to such a status since before the time of Talos. It was weaker and had greater restrictions than being a Hagraven as the Aedra were tight-fisted with their power. What was the point when a Matriarch could get better returns on worshipping Hircine or Nocturnal?

“Brace yourselves,” Hawk told Rustem, Marius and Cicero as her form began to shimmer. “Kaleen’s a stickler for propriety and if I don’t wear my true face, she’ll be greatly offended.”

By now, the illusion of the compact brunette with the tattooed face was a ghostly image over the true form of a Hawksister, drawing gasps from her father, the jester and even a few of Madanach’s personal guard. The King in Rags maintained a stoic expression as the feathers and talons began to emerge. Were those feathers or were they scales? Madanach suspected Rustem wasn’t the only one with a dragon’s soul in the party.

Hawk was still recognisably Hawk, still compact and even curvaceous, but grey feathers with a band of turquoise lined her forearms and calves, her eyes were those of a hawk but turquoise, and her fingers and toes tapered into long steel-coloured talons. She wasn’t as bent over as a Hagraven but there was a hunch to her shoulders that suggested the curve of wings. Madanach blinked as the golden image of a dragon seemed to shine through her olive-bronze skin.

“Kyne has never forgotten Her children, even when they don’t call on Her that often,” she said mildly.

“Cicero won’t be singing about wringing birdies’ necks any time soon,” the jester said weakly.

“Wise decision,” Marius observed blandly.

“Well, this just got a little bit weirder,” Rustem said. “But I talk to a dead womer through her knucklebone, so…”

Kaleen welcomed them at the entrance of her redoubt, exchanging formal greetings with Hawk and greeting Madanach with a deep bow. “Come, Ard Ri,” she croaked. “I’ve summoned the clan leaders who answer to me.”

Madanach returned her bow. “Kaie has apparently made some diplomatic overtures. I can’t say as I’m happy with them, but I am a realist. We have things to discuss and decisions to make.”

There would be a reckoning, whether or not the Reach could be free of Skyrim. His murdered people’s blood demanded that much.

…

“So, a Shout. I don’t suppose you know it?”

Rustem gave his daughter a sideways glance. She was definitely following the Aurelii tradition of supernatural weirdness. None of them had ever become a hawk-woman-thing before.

“Its name was Dragonrend, but I don’t know the Shout,” she admitted. “Of the living, only the Greybeards are truly aware of it, and of them only Paarthurnax has seen it in action. It was… well, it was made from the hate, rage and grief of the Three Tongues and forced the concepts of finiteness, mortality and an absolute end on the dragons. Arngeir would say it’s a horrendous Shout. I’d say it isn’t so much what you say, it’s how you say it. Sithis is death incarnate, isn’t he? Draw on that when you use the Shout.”

“Sithis is,” Rustem agreed.

“Ooh, shiny, shiny swords!” Cicero exclaimed with glee from upstairs. “I want the daggers!”

“And the dai-katana is mine,” Marius said proudly. “Fighting chain too.”

Hawk’s smile was wry. “The Dragonguard were thorough. They even have a naginata.”

“You’ve been in here?” Rustem asked. “I thought-“

“The blood-seal locked it from anyone who couldn’t fly,” she answered as they headed upstairs. “But as the Hawksister, I can fly.”

“Why?” Rustem asked simply.

“Because when a Hag reaches a certain level of power and influence, she’s supposed to ‘ascend’. But mostly because at the time, there wasn’t a lot of choice for me. The Empire would have killed me for existing, my mother had just sent an assassin after me to protect her own interests, and the Thalmor were hunting me for only the gods know what reasons.” They entered the dormitory and armoury. “I’m happy as I am. There are worse fates than being a literal Hand of Kyne.”

“If nothing else, there’s no prison that can hold you,” Rustem said softly.

“That helps,” Hawk agreed.

There was, as she said, a naginata. It wasn’t the dragonbone one forged for the Septims by the Dragonguard’s smiths but one of quicksilver-alloyed steel, light and flexible, with dragon-killing runes along its teak shaft. Though he was proficient in all two-handed weapons, he’d always preferred the naginata because he could channel Destruction spells through it. Like a staff but more… stabby, he supposed.

“The Blades are gone,” she said softly. “But when this is all over, I intend to gather likeminded people to create the Skyguard so the dragonlore isn’t lost. The Thu’um was given to humanity by Kyne. Not Akatosh. Not Talos. It’s high time the Nords remember who their true goddess is.”

“Don’t tell the Talosites that,” Rustem said wryly.

Hawk’s smile was a grim one. “They’ll learn soon enough. Shezzarines come and go, but Kyne is forever.”


	16. Deign to Join Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

The blue banners of the Stormcloaks flew over Whiterun and Fort Greymoor, so Rustem decided to overnight and catch up on the gossip. He admonished Cicero to behave before leading him and Marius up to the Bannered Mare. He should also probably check in with Lydia too. She was his huscarl.

Lydia was at the inn, drinking with Alfhild Battle-Born, and raised her hand as they entered. “My Thane, you deigned to remember me,” she said with a wry smile.

“I’ve been running around like a chicken with its head cut off,” he answered ruefully. “Lydia, this is Cicero. He’s one of my friends. The mer is Marius Aurelius, a distant cousin.”

“ _The_ Marius Aurelius?” Lydia squealed. “Friend of Martin Septim and Aurelia Northstar and the Eternal Champion?”

“The very same,” Marius confirmed with a smile. “I figure I’m good for one more apocalyptic event.”

“If you don’t take me along to kill Alduin, I’m going to be personally and deeply offended,” Lydia said firmly.

“Well, you better get ready to leave, because tomorrow we go to High Hrothgar to learn the Shout that defeated Alduin the first time,” Rustem told her.

“Bring her back safely, please,” Alfhild said softly.

“I will,” he promised. Lydia’s preference for women had been obvious from the beginning. “How are things in Whiterun?”

“Relieved, more than anything else,” Lydia reported as they all sat down at the firepit. “Cirroc saved us from the rule of Ulfric and Sigdrifa. He’s back in Whiterun now, staying with the Companions.”

“And receiving some lessons in humility,” Alfhild added with a laugh. “Vilkas chased him around the Wind District and Cirroc didn’t get a single blow on him.”

“He does have a few blind spots as a duelist,” Rustem agreed. “I have every faith in Vilkas to teach my son some valid lessons.”

“But seriously, your son didn’t just defeat Sigdrifa, he completely destroyed her,” Lydia continued. “Can you believe she had a contract with the Dark Brotherhood to kill her own husband, huscarl and sons if necessary?”

“Given I was the one who gave Cirroc that paperwork, yes,” Rustem confirmed.

“Ulfric handed the Throne of Ysgramor over to Egil and has become a military adviser,” Lydia reported. “It was literally Egil allowing Sigdrifa to take sanctuary in the Temple of Talos that left her alive… and Cirroc crippled her when she tried to attack him, according to Ralof. The other option was the sea-death for betrayal and kin-harm.”

“And absolutely no one wanted Sigdrifa as a sea-ghost,” Alfhild said.

“If Sidgara were alive, she’d be disgusted with how far her bloodline has fallen,” Marius said grimly.

“Well, there’s no more Shieldmaidens.” Lydia waved over Olfina Grey-Mane for some mead. “Who do you think will be the next High Monarch?”

“If the choice is between Ulfric’s sons, Bjarni’s the most likely. He may have actually worked out a truce with the Forsworn,” Rustem told her. “By the way, at the very least, I’ll be backing a Reach-blooded Jarl, if not independence for the Reach. They helped me quite a bit when I was looking for Alduin’s Wall.”

“I think my uncle will agree,” Lydia observed. “He doesn’t want to lose Skyrim’s trading networks because of the Stormcloaks… and honestly, the political balance in our country relies on Whiterun keeping the eastern and western Holds on an even keel.”

“Maybe we should make him the High King,” Rustem mused.

“If not Bjarni, he’d be the best option,” Lydia agreed.

Cirroc was, as Alfhild noted, in the process of receiving another lesson from Vilkas when Rustem stopped in at Jorrvaskr. It consisted of him being chased around the courtyard by a white-haired Nord woman in steel armour, dodging her shield. If it wasn’t for the agility of the Redguard style, his son would have been in deep trouble.

“Halt!” snapped Vilkas, who was lean and mean. “Walk it off, then rest for a few minutes.”

The two youngsters obeyed, accepting water from a Dunmer on the sideline.

“I see you got a new naginata,” Cirroc said after drinking some water.

“I see you managed to achieve everything I couldn’t,” Rustem said wryly.

“Had to be done.” Cirroc glanced at the white-haired Nord. “Even Njada, who’s Shieldmaiden-trained, agreed it was the right course of action.”

“Sigdrifa lost her way,” Njada said. “I’ll be returning to Windhelm soon. Someone has to make sure Egil’s okay.”

“I didn’t take pleasure in it,” Cirroc said defensively.

“If I thought you had, I’d have beaten the shit out of you,” Njada told him frankly.

“You do that already!”

“No. This is training. If I were trying to kill you, you’d be dead.”

“Better to yield when faced with a shield,” Cicero murmured.

Vilkas grunted. “Dark Brothers in Jorrvaskr. What’s next, riding dragons?”

Lydia smirked. “You never know. Rustem’s doing all sorts of new and exciting things.”

Balgruuf was poring over account books, a sandwich in his hand, when they went up to his office in Dragonsreach. “You deign to visit us,” the Jarl said dryly, turning a page.

“I know there’s a Shout that defeated Alduin,” Rustem told him. “Also, if you want to secure the silver trade route, reach out to Argis the Bulwark and Kaie mac Fereda. Madanach’s out and I’ll be supporting the Reach being ruled by themselves, with or without independence.”

“I’ve already recognised Argis as the rightful Jarl in return for some trade concessions,” Balgruuf said with a smile. “Good job on the Silver-Bloods. They were scum.”

“Madanach did a fair bit of the work,” Rustem said modestly. “These are my friends Cicero and Marius. One’s… well, he shares an allegiance with me and the other’s probably the last Blade.”

“I’ll likely join the Skyguard Hawk’s founding when this is over,” Marius said. “The Akaviri lore should be preserved.”

“If the nice Jarl has anyone who needs to be stabbed, Cicero will be glad to oblige,” the jester told Balgruuf cheerfully.

“I don’t suppose there’s a discount? I can think of a few names right about now,” Balgruuf chuckled.

“We might be able to do a deal,” Rustem assured him. “What’s the political aftermath from Cirroc’s actions?”

“Moderates are flocking to the Stormcloaks in droves,” Balgruuf answered, finishing his sandwich in a few neat bites. “Ulfric’s been muzzled, Egil’s listening to the Dunmer and Argonians, and Sigdrifa’s raving in the Temple of Talos. Cirroc did more for Skyrim than he realises.”

Rustem pursed his lips. “I think there’s going to be a resurgence in the old Nord faith. Hawk kind of hinted she’s going in that direction when I last saw her and it seems the Forsworn have a variant of it. They just worship the Daedra because it’s more immediately rewarding.”

“The new Arch-Mage is a follower of the old faith too. They usually tend to be rural and poor, so you don’t see them often in politics.” Balgruuf smiled slightly. “The next few months will be interesting. Hurry up and save the world so I can play politics without worrying about a dragon stopping by for dinner.”

“I’m working on it,” Rustem promised with a laugh. “But wait until the final act. It’s going to be the best.”


	17. Mortal Finite Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death and mentions of violence and fantastic racism. I’m going to skip the Elder Scroll business entirely because I can. Also, gay and gender-nonconforming dragons because fuck cisheteronormativity (technically, Jills are ‘female’ but fuck it, Tey exists).

“Where did you learn of that? Who have you been talking to?” Arngeir demanded after Rustem brought up the topic of Dragonrend. It was easier to think of him as Arngeir the Greybeard instead of Julius Martin the absentee father and Grandmaster. Marius had done a double-take on seeing him before falling grimly silent, only his gaze smouldering with a quiet anger. He’d been forced into an endless duty by this man until the Dragonborn freed him… and Rustem suspected he might have loved Julius Martin as more than a cousin. Poor bastard.

“Hawk did,” Rustem answered tersely. “I know you don’t know it but Paarthurnax does.”

Arngeir’s expression grew even frostier. “Hawk is-“

“One word about my daughter and I may choose to hold you to account for your betrayal of the Blades,” Rustem promised in a deadly-soft voice. “I don’t get what she’s become myself, but she has done nothing but help me.”

“Only because she feels Talos’ time as a god has come and gone!” Arngeir snapped.

“Maybe it has,” Rustem said wryly.

Wulfgar stirred and said something that even a whisper shook the entire building. Arngeir blanched and said something in Dragonish, its meaning just beyond Rustem’s understanding, but a more powerful voice overrode them both.

“I’m guessing that’s Paarthurnax,” Marius observed blandly.

“He commands us to let you go to the peak,” Arngeir grated. “I swear, if you kill him…”

“You disappoint me, Julius Martin,” Marius said softly. “The Dragonborn has decreed that Paarthurnax may live and those of us who aren’t bound to obey him have no reason to attack him. Perhaps you should meditate on trust and atonement while we speak with your Grandmaster.”

Arngeir’s face flamed crimson and Rustem savoured his embarrassment.

It took a new Shout called Clear Skies to bring them to the Throat of the World. Cirroc hugged himself under the white fur cloak he’d been given by the Companions while Rustem began to understand why the Nords claimed they were breathed down by Kyne in this place. But what surprised him was the presence of two dragons, not one, at the peak.

“Drem Yol Lok. Greetings, wunduniikke. I am Paarthurnax. Who are you? What brings you to my strunmah... my mountain?” rumbled the old and battered grey dragon.

The other dragon, this one more in the serpentine style of the dragons portrayed in Akaviri art, rolled his eyes. “It is the Dovahkiin, idiot.”

“Yes. Vahzah. You speak true, Teyfunvahzah. Forgive me. It has been long since I held tinvaak with a stranger. I gave in to the temptation to prolong our speech,” Paarthurnax sighed.

“I imagine the Greybeards would make for tedious conversationalists, especially Arngeir,” Rustem agreed wryly.

“Aar-Naar-Gaar is difficult at times,” Parthurnax said ruefully. “The Dovahsos is a hard burden to bear. It took me years to teach him humility.”

“Why live alone on a mountain if you love conversation?” Lydia asked curiously. She was thriving in this cold, even if everyone else was bundled up.

“Evenaar Bahlok. There are many hungers it is better to deny than to feed. Dreh ni nahkip. Discipline against the lesser aids in qahnaar... denial of the greater,” Paarthurnax told her.

“Discipline in little things translates to mastery in greater things,” Cirroc observed. “I think I understand a little.”

“More than you know, Dovah-Kiir… dragon’s child,” Paarthurnax said warmly.

“I wish we had more time to chat, but Alduin’s tearing up the place and I really need to get him out the way before I chastise several enemies of mine,” Rustem told the dragon with a sigh. “I need to learn Dragonrend.”

“Drem. Patience. There are formalities which must be observed, at the first meeting of two of the dov,” chided Paarthurnax as he stepped off the wall and landed heavily. “By long tradition, the elder speaks first. Hear my Thu'um! Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are Dovahkiin! Yol...Toor...Shul! A gift, Dovahkiin. Yol. Understand Fire as the dov do!”

That was how Rustem learned to breathe fire.

“Now, show me what you can do. Greet me not as mortal, but as dovah!” Paarthurnax urged as Rustem blasted him with fire. “Aaah... yes! Sossedov los mul. The Dragonblood runs strong in you. It is long since I had the pleasure of speech with one of my own kind!”

“What am I, chopped liver?” Teyfunvahzah asked tartly.

“That is different. You are a Jill,” Paarthurnax answered.

“What is a Jill?” Cicero asked Marius softly.

“’Minute-mender’. All dragons are creatures of time, but Akatosh created Jills to be a bit more hands-on. Probably a good three-quarters of the Dovahkiinne have been Jills because of their effects on time and probability. And contrary to what some idiotic scholars believe, the minute-menders aren’t ‘female’ so much as they are the reactive principle of Akatosh as opposed to the typical proactive principle of the dovahhe,” Marius answered in a scholarly manner. “Hawk is a Jill, I suspect, while Rustem’s more of a traditional dov.”

“Not bad for a joor,” Teyfunvahzah said approvingly. “Though ‘adaptive’ is more accurate than ‘reactive’.”

“Every dov was once paired with a Jill,” Paarthurnax said sadly. “Until my brother, the eldest, slew his in a fit of rage and became a tyrant.”

“Alduin really is a piece of shit, isn’t he?” Rustem observed. “So, Dragonrend.”

“Dragon’s end, for you are the end of all things in this time of prophecy,” Teyfunvahzah chided. “You must release your hatred and anger, for yours is the path of clearing the way for new things. Al-Du-In must learn anew, as must all dovahhe. Time must ever flow onwards and all things must die.”

“I thought concepts of ending and mortality were beyond a dragon’s understanding on the level of a Shout?” Marius asked in surprise.

“My friends, the Three Tongues, introduced them to us with Dragonrend,” Paarthurnax said softly. “It has taken me a long time to understand it, even with Kyne’s assistance. I will be the first dov to die a mortal death, unless someone speeds me to Her faster.”

He sighed gustily and in that sigh were three Words. “JOOR ZAH FRUL!”

“Mortal-Finite-Ending,” Rustem whispered. Truly, the essence of humanity that both the dragons and the Thalmor feared. For death ended things, brought change, allowed new things to grow.

**_“All That Is requires All That Is Not to exist,”_** agreed the Night Mother. **_“Sithis and Anu. Alduin and Akatosh.”_**

“Geh,” Paarthurnax agreed. “All things must end.”

**_“And you shall be the first among them, Tahrodiis Paarthurnax,”_** rumbled a sepulchral voice above them before the sky rained fire.


	18. The End of All Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. I’m truncating the Alduin arc because for fuck’s sake, it’s cheap he gets to piss off so you need to fight him in Sovngarde. He’s facing five fighters and two dragons here, one of whom is empowered by Sithis as the Listener and another is probably one of the finest swordsmen in the world. So fuck it.

**_“Bahloki nahkip sillesejoor. My belly is full of the souls of your fellow mortals, Dovahkiin. Die now and await your fate in Sovngarde!”_ **

“JOOR ZAH FRUL!” Rustem retorted, power red-black with the touch of Sithis bursting forth to strike Alduin full in the face. As to what the concept of mortality could do to the literal end of the world-

It forced him to land, to share the ground with the lesser creatures the World-Eater disdained. Marius and Cicero were upon him in a moment, quicksilver-alloyed blades parting ebon-black scales with shallow but bleeding wounds. “Go for the wings!” Marius ordered Cirroc and Lydia. “Double-time it! We don’t know how long this Shout will work.”

Lydia launched herself into action, shield-bashing the dragon’s membranous wings while Cirroc went for the hamstring. His boy had a streak of the backstabbing pragmatist in him. Rustem was proud.

“Fen du hin sille ko Sovngarde!” Alduin promised.

_Fuck you,_ Rustem thought as he called lightning to his naginata. He needed to save his breath for Shouting.

Teyfunvahzah and Paarthurnax weren’t idle either, the former clutching large rocks in his back-claws and dropping them on Alduin while the other hammered the concept of mortality into his former brother with tooth, claw and Shout. If it wasn’t Rustem keeping him grounded, it was Paarthurnax.

Rustem paused for a moment, watching the tempo of the fight, and waited for Alduin to raise his head to blast – probably fire – Lydia before rushing in, pushing the startled huscarl aside, and dragging his naginata blade along the length of that serpentine throat. The World-Eater’s Shout died in gargled blood and the lightning cauterised the smoking wounds before they could regenerate.

“Hi fen dir nahlot naal ni luv do naan,” Teyfunvahzah told him. “No one will mourn for you, Al-Du-In, not even Bormahu.”

Alduin mightn’t be able to fight but he still had fangs, claws and a desire to live and dominate that kept him ticking. There was no one unwounded and the snows of Monahven were dyed red with blood to match the westering sun above. It seemed like they were at a stalemate.

“Zu'u Alduin, zok sahrot do naan ko Lein,” Alduin wheezed.

“And I am Marius Aurelius. My ancestors rode yours like carnivorous horses, those they permitted to live. Come then, World-Eater, and let us end this!” Marius grated, charging in with his fighting chain in his hands.

“Are you insane?” Rustem yelped, forgetting the rhythm of his breathing in the shock of the warrior suddenly taking the offensive.

Marius leapt past Alduin’s snapping teeth and quickly jumped up to straddle his shoulders, looping the fighting chain around his neck to haul it back. The tendons under his golden skin were taut with strain and his eyes were wide with the effort.

Cirroc threw the Spirit Sword to the side and summoned his soul sword, both weapons aiming for the bared throat, while Lydia dropped her shield, held her steel sword in a two-handed grip, and began to hack into his side. Cicero, not to be undone, shrieked an incantation and was joined by a ghostly figure in the Cyrodiil Brotherhood’s robes to complete the job of hamstringing the dragon.

“JOOR ZAH FRUL!” Rustem roared, running forward and bringing his naginata down in a sideways swipe. Part of Alduin’s throat was carved away in a burst of fiery blood that scalded Rustem’s skin, but he was beyond caring. If he was the end of this beast, then he would consign the World-Eater to the Void.

What followed was butchery like the battles in Hegathe, Stros M’kai, the March of Thirst and the retaking of Taneth. Swipe, bleed, cut, hack, slash, slay. Butchery, no more… and no less. There was no glory or honour in this, only the resolution of a man fighting to save his world.

“Zu'u unslaad! Zu'u nis oblaan!” Alduin cried in despair, much as Mirmulnir had at the western watchtower.

Alduin was not eternal and he came to an end. When the darkness swallowed him, Rustem followed him into it, looking for the surcease of pain that the Void brought to all.

…

Rustem wasn’t as handsome as he’d been but the burns were mostly surface ones, readily healed with Restoration magic and poultices. Marius watched Hawk wrap bandages around her father to speed up the healing, her fingers trembling from the effort of flying from the Reach to the Throat of the World as soon as she realised the battle was on. Even ‘Hawksisters’ could grow weary, it seemed.

“Trust Father to give the prophecy the finger,” she said wearily when it was over. “He was meant to confront Alduin in Sovngarde with the Three Tongues and every Blade who’d ever lived at his side, not in a knockdown brawl half of fucking Skyrim saw.”

“Have you ever known Rustem to take orders well?” Marius asked with a weary smile. “It is finished, Hawk.”

“Alduin is,” she corrected. “But Mede’s in Solitude harbour. If he gets word…”

“He won’t flee.” The weak voice was Rustem’s as he cracked open his blue eyes. “He knows it’s over.”

“You can’t do anything for the next bloody week,” Hawk said, her tone harsh with relief. “The burns were relatively light but there were a lot of them. You won’t be winning any beauty pageants soon.”

“Heh. If you met the rest of my sibs, I’d still win them,” Rustem joked wearily. “Marius, you are absolutely fucking insane, you know that?”

“Of course I am,” he told the Dragonborn amusedly. “I’m an Aurelii.”

Hawk pushed back her hair with taloned fingers. “Do you have any messages for your Dawnstar brethren? They’re a little more civil than the Falkreath ones.”

“You’d help me kill Mede, even by proxy?” Rustem asked as Lydia helped him to sit up.

“The Empire were one of the three perpetrators who prevented me from having a normal life,” Hawk told him candidly. “I’ve already chastised the Thalmor. I’d prefer to get Mede out of the way so Skyrim can be the freer the sooner.”

“Tell Jenassa…” Rustem sighed. “If possible, I want.... Mede…. Fuck, there’s no way we can capture him, can we?”

“For the effort it would take to kill every sailor and soldier on the _Katariah,_ we might as well kill him then and there,” Hawk answered. “He might wait a few days but…”

“Then carry word to Jenassa _and_ Astrid,” Rustem ordered softly but clearly. “Tell them to complete the contract without me. This isn’t about vengeance or justice, but the swallowing of an ancient worldskin to allow a new one to grow.”

“I’ll go with them,” Cirroc promised. “One of the Aurelii should be there.”

Rustem paused, a listening expression on his face, and nodded. “The Night Mother’s good with it. Even the Brotherhood outsources on occasion. But only as witness. If you kill him, you’ll owe Sithis a death.”

“Understood.” Cirroc reached over to embrace his father gently. “I helped kill Alduin. I won’t be greedy for glory.”

“Then I’ll carry the messages,” Hawk agreed. “The next week or two should be… interesting.”

When Hawk had flown off and Cirroc departed with Lydia, Marius raised an eyebrow at Rustem. “I thought your one ambition was to kill Titus Mede?”

“I’m the Last Dragonborn,” Rustem said softly. “The End of Prophecy. There’s no prophecy involved in Mede’s death, only justice and vengeance and an old man dying to free the world from his stranglehold.”

Marius smiled wearily. “You’ve matured, Rustem.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”


	19. The End of Empire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of war crimes, imprisonment, genocide and religious conflict. I know this chapter's a bit of an arse-pull, but I'm kind of tired, so I wanted it finished.

“Not that we don’t appreciate the company, but mind if I ask the purpose?” Nazir asked Hawk as their boat docked on the Hjaalmarch side of Solitude Harbour. From here, the red-striped sails of the _Katariah_ were visible and judging by the glint of steel, the Penitus Oculatus were in force on the docks.

“It’s metaphysical,” Hawk said tersely. “We’re not just killing the Emperor. We’re killing the very idea of Empire.”

Nazir’s eyes widened. “Wouldn’t the Listener be better suited to this than me and Veezara?”

“No. Father’s too injured from his fight with Alduin.” Hawk’s smile was now almost beatific. “I’ll handle the metaphysical side of it. You take care of the killing.”

“Works for me,” Veezara said cheerfully. “What about the Penitus Oculatus?”

Hawk’s smile was now wintry. “Leave that for me. STRUN BAH QO!”

From north to south, east to west, the very clouds in the sky split their bellies at the crack of thunder in her Voice, releasing lightning and hail that struck the earth below like blows in a battle. Rustem’s Voice had shaken the mountain they fought Alduin on but hers shook the heavens themselves. Cirroc knew she was an Avatar of her goddess but… wow.

“Why didn’t you come with us to High Hrothgar?” he asked her. “We could have killed Alduin a lot sooner!”

“Because I wasn’t expecting you enthusiasts to go after him so bloody soon! Remember what I said about the final battle being in Sovngarde?” Hawk shook her head. “I can’t leave Father alone for five minutes before he does something that has me scrambling.”

“Welcome to our life,” Nazir said wryly. “Let’s wait for this storm to subside before walking over.”

“You’ll be fine,” Hawk assured him. “I have fine control over my own Voice.”

That was true, Cirroc mused, as they donned boots with a Waterwalking enchantment and strode across the harbour to the ship, which was looking in a lot worse shape. The few sailors and Penitus Oculatus agents who survived the storm were readily dispatched while Nazir’s Blizzard scroll took care of those belowdecks. Cirroc liberated a nice scimitar from the ship’s renegade captain. Maybe T’roc would want it.

Titus Mede awaited them in his personal quarters… and he wasn’t alone. Roughed up, tied to a chair, was Cirroc’s grandfather Beroc.

“Come now, don't be shy. You haven't come this far just to stand there gawking,” said the supposed ruler of half of Tamriel. “I know the Redguards were behind this and the Aurelii would be their weapon.”

“Actually, Motierre got the money from the Thalmor,” Hawk told the ancient man. “Don’t worry, I cleaned up that mess when I killed Elenwen.”

Mede’s eyes widened. “What the _fuck_ are you?”

“Hawksister. I’m still more human than the coward who sold out his empire’s god to save his own skin,” Hawk answered sweetly as her hands and eyes began to glow. “Imprisoning a diplomat. My, my, this is awkward.”

“Where’s Rustem?” demanded Mede. “I’d have thought-“

“My father was too occupied with defeating the World-Eater to delete a non-entity like you,” Cirroc announced as he stepped from the shadows. “Don’t worry, the world won’t end. Your Empire will, but not Nirn.”

“So you’re the Redguard bastard. I’m guessing the humanoid abomination is Callaina. Gods, if only the Mythic Dawn had wiped out your wretched bloodline.” Mede sighed. “My Empire will continue past my death. I have prepared for it. Irkand already has his instructions.”

“Given that the Falkreath First tried to kill him once they got word of Father being Dragonborn, I doubt that’s going to happen,” Cirroc told him. “You have some amazingly stupid subordinates.”

“Fuck!” Mede swore, drawing a laugh from Beroc.

Nazir edged closer and Mede’s hand flared with fire. “If I die, Beroc goes with me,” he warned.

“You’re making the assumption I’m bothered by that possibility,” Beroc observed dryly. “I’ve lived a good life. Taking you to the Far Shores with me would make for a good end.”

Mede stepped closer to him. “Are you insane-?”

Only Beroc’s arms and torso were secured to the chair and even a retired Sword-Saint in his eighties was flexible enough to kick another old man in the balls once he was within striking distance. “Now!”

Nazir’s scimitar scythed over Beroc’s head to decapitate the bent-over Mede messily just after Hawk’s spell struck the Emperor in a blue-gold glow. For a moment, Cirroc fancied he saw the shocked expression of a bearded Nord in chainmail superimposed over Mede before death took the evil old bastard… but it was just his imagination.

“Blech,” Beroc grimaced as brain matter and blood splashed over him. “These were my good robes.”

“So dies the Empire,” Hawk said with satisfaction. “It is done.”

…

Sigdrifa was praying to Talos in the Temple when the statue cracked apart, the top half of its head sliding down to crush her. Ulfric was still trying to puzzle out what happened when word reached him that the statue overlooking Windhelm Harbour had suffered a similar fate. Then word came from the Old Holds every statue of Talos had broken in the same manner.

In Markarth, the Reachfolk rejoiced and Catriona smiled a secret smile. The long vengeance of the children of the Druadachs had come to fruition by the hand of their own.

The Dominion rejoiced, for the Many-Headed Talos was dead. Their joy turned to ashes when a group of dragons, led by a scarlet creature carrying a woman-hawk hybrid, arrived on their shores several moons later to firmly put the remnants of Empire to rest. Only the Thalmor and their supporters were targeted. It was still enough to break the Dominion.

Never more did the red dragon-diamond or the golden eagle rise. Never more did man or mer seek to unravel or dominate Nirn.

It wasn’t paradise, but it was a better world for it. The world-skin of the old serpent had been swallowed to reveal a new and shining one. As was the way of Satakal, Akatosh, the kalpa… Nothing lasted forever, for in stasis lay stagnation, just as formless chaos produced entropy.

It wasn’t paradise, but it was a better world, and that was enough.


End file.
